A.N: This is my first Khr fic, so yay. Be gentle with me. A Skull-centric story, born of too many musings on his past. I admit, this is largely AU, but since we have no canon on the Arcobaleno's origin stories, I have creative licence, right ? Right.

Disclaimers: You know the drill, Khr doesn't belong to me, yada, yada.

Pairings: None. Unless you squint. Really hard.

Enjoy !

5K-V11:

Of the dead say nothing but good.

There was a single sentence in a frame, above the door of Dr Wells' lab. De mortuis nil nisi bonum dicendum est. It was the only decoration there, the only thing that broke the monotony of white walls, white ceiling and metal doors. As such, it attracted 5K-V11's attention immediately.

He waited, his wrists strapped to the metal table, his ankles strapped the same way, his neck almost too tightly held by the leather collar there. He didn't have anything to do but read that sentence, over and over. Committing it to memory, and wondering what it meant.

De mortuis nil nisi bonum dicendum est.

What a strange phrase. 5K-V11 wondered what language it was, what the words meant, if it held any important meaning or not. He was still staring at the frame, eyes intent on the words, as if by staring at them they would finally reveal their meaning to him, when the door shifted open.

"-course," Dr Wells was saying, to someone else, "Try the second serum. If there are no side effects, move to the next one."

"Yes, Dr Wells," a woman replied, and then she was gone, door closing behind her with a metallic sound.

The Doctor was a middle-aged, balding man, with thin features and high-cheekbones. His eyes, grey like steel, always seemed to dissect anything he met, and when he smiled it was never pleasant looking. Such a smile was directed at 5K-V11, thin and false looking.

"How are you feeling, 5K-V11 ?" He asked, voice attempting warmth and failing.

5K-V11 didn't reply, keeping a cautious eye on the Doctor. Dr Wells didn't seem to care much, simply twitching in an annoyed manner, before pulling at his tie – a tic that 5K-V11 had noticed the Doctor had, when impatient.

"Do you know why you're here ?" Dr Wells asked, this time not even bothering to pretend to care.

"No," 5K-V11 said.

It was, of course, a lie. There was nothing that escaped the notice of the children of the facility. They might not talk much, aware that their every move was watched and monitored, but they had other ways of communicating such things. It was almost instinctual, by now.

5K-V11 knew why he was here, because he had known what the other 5K's had gone through. There were stories, and bits and pieces put together. When they had taken 5K-V4, they had heard his screams echo around the whole facility. Later, when 5K-V7 had been taken to the labs, they had felt the ground shake for a while, and then there were the scorch marks on the walls near the canteen, like ashen hand prints.

He could recall the cold assessment heard through the corridors, echoing like so many mocking voices.

5K-V10, another failure. They said, just like they had with the previous 5K's. This project never yields results.

And now, they had taken 5K-V11 in turn, and 5K-V12 and 5K-V13 had watched him go silently, knowing they would probably never see him again. Fearing that it would soon be their turn. They didn't know exactly what they were taken for, but they were far from stupid, and had been living in the facility for years. They knew the sort of experiments, the sort of terrible torture that they could be subjected to.

"Well," the Doctor said, "We're going to inject you with a serum-" another one- "and then we're going to use some device to activate it." He smiled, unpleasant and false. "It's not going to hurt."

5K-V11 didn't say anything. There was nothing to say to such an obvious lie. The moment the Doctor turned away, he tried to pull on his restraints, but they were tight and held fast. As always.

Then the nurses came in, with a chariot full of the usual tools – scalpels, needles, and many other things that sent chills down the boy's spine, sending him back to all those times when they had held him down and opened him up and-

5K-V11 snapped back to reality when a needle was stuck in his neck, painfully. He grit his teeth, closing his eyes, hoping that this serum would be better than the last one.

Then his veins were on fire and he screamed.

As long as 5K-V11 could remember, he had been at the facility. He had no idea how long he had been there, how old he was, or what his real name was. He didn't remember if he had ever been outside, if he had a family, or any of those things that Nurse Flora used to tell him and the other 5K's about.

Nurse Flora had been nice, the only one that really seemed to care about them in this cold, white place. She was the one to kiss them gently, sadly on the forehead before they went to sleep, telling them white lies – it will be okay, tomorrow will be better. She was the one who had argued for a few books for them, and more varied meals, and some play time.

When she had left, not even saying goodbye, the 5K's had been devastated. They knew she hadn't left of her own volition – and maybe she hadn't left, maybe she was with the 4K's, dead and rotting away in some dump near the facility.

The books had been removed, their meals were back to the bland porridge that had been routine, there wasn't any playtime allowed.

Still, the 5K's never forgot Nurse Flora, never forgot the stories she told them, never forgot the pictures they saw on the books – never forgot the small taste of freedom she had given them.

It gave them hope that they would, maybe, one day, get out of there.

In a way, it was cruel. For before Nurse Flora, they had no idea that there was anything more. And now, they were acutely aware that they would probably never get to experience it.

When 5K-V11 woke up, he was in a tank. A cylinder full of some transparent liquid, floating, hooked to so many tubes and chains he didn't quite know what belonged to him and what didn't.

There was still fire in his veins, but it wasn't as painful as before, more of an itch, a warmth that didn't leave.

Feeling oddly detached, 5K-V11 raised a hand, and put it against the glass of his tank. He felt like he was a fish, like the ones in the tank he had once spied walking past a room they usually never opened.

It took him some time to realize that there was someone else – several people, in fact – watching him. He stared at them, feeling terribly sluggish. A voice managed to get to him, from very far away.

"5K-V11 is a success," someone was saying.

The boy wondered how, wondered why. He wondered what this fire in his body was, and what it was meant to do.

There were no answers, as he slipped out of consciousness again.

There was purple fire coming out of his hands, out of every pore of his body in fact. Somehow, no one but him seemed to see it. 5K-V11 felt terribly glad for that small mercy.

The fire was probably what had caused the changes in his body.

5K-V11 hadn't seen his own reflection often, but he caught enough glances at windows or metal surfaces to know that he had had brown hair and rather pale skin. From what 5K-V10 had always said, he had brown eyes too, very dark.

Now, though, he was purple and white. Purple hair, purple eyes, and his skin so pale it was almost translucent. It was scary. It was odd. If only it was the only change, though, 5K-V11 would have been happy.

But no. The fire had cause him to change differently. He was stronger, now, faster, could do things…

The scientists, Dr Wells the first of them, made 5K-V11 experiment with those changes. Trying to get him to lift heavy charges, trying to get him to break through the wall, trying to get him to make something float-

5K-V11 couldn't make things float. But the moment he discovered he could break through the wall, he knew he had just found a way out.

Now, if he could just stop fainting after using his newly discovered strength for more than ten minutes...

Eventually, 5K-V11 managed to use his new strength without fainting for an hour straight. Each time he was done with training, they would either stick him back in his tank of liquid, to float harmlessly in a drugged state and rest, or they would bring him to the labs.

As much as the boy liked his new powers, he hated the fact that he could now heal really fast.

The scientist relished in experimenting on it.

Obviously, anesthetics were a luxury 5K-V11 wasn't afforded, and he became very familiar with his own voice as he screamed his throat raw.

The first time 5K-V11 tried to escape was the time he almost managed it. He took everyone by surprise, breaking through walls and steel doors like they were made of paper, running down the corridors in a straight line and never stopping.

It wasn't like things hurt him for long, the scientists had made sure of that, his healing abilities were now ridiculous.

So he ignored the pain of slamming bodily into walls, his bones breaking and healing in the same breath, ignored the way guards tried to stop him, or the way blows and bullets would hurt but heal all the same.

He was getting out. He was getting out.

A voice in his head was chanting it as a mantra, keeping him going, and his fire was almost dancing with glee inside of him, singing free-free-out-free-wewillmakeit-outofhere-free-

Then he broke through yet another wall, and suddenly there was grass under his feet, and the sky above his head, and his eyes went wide as the wind caught his hair.

It was all so large. So much space. The sky was immense, and everything seemed to big, and he was free- and he didn't know where to go, but if the world was so large, he would find something, surely.

So he started running again, breathing deeply, trying to get all of this forever printed in his brain, as he made his bid for freedom-

There were shots, and his head exploded in pain.

5K-V11 woke up in his tank again. There was something around his wrists that hadn't been there before.

The fire felt slow and cold.

And he felt trapped.

There isn't a time when 5K-V11 doesn't try to get out. There isn't a time he succeeds either. Now that he has proved he could survive being shot in the head, the security wasn't afraid of using lethal force to put him down and drag him back.

Each time he tried, he got less and less far in his attempts.

Each time he tried, he woke up in his tank, drugged beyond what a normal human could stand, trapped once again.

Each time he tried, they started to experiment on him again, making him writhe and scream, and filling him with pain-pain-makeitstop-stop-please.

Each time he tried, he failed, and each time he despaired more.

Eventually, 5K-V11 stopped trying.

He has no idea how long goes by. How many weeks, months, years- he doesn't care.

They break him, they destroy whatever individuality he had developed, they grind it into dust. The fire inside him is reduced to barely warm ashes, only put to use for his training. Even then, it feels like the flames are cold and lifeless, and he feels like a machine.

"5K-V11," someone says, and he looks at them, eyes dull and face blank, from where he had been doing push-ups like requested. "It's time for your check-up."

He nods, and follows obediently. They strap him down to the table, and he lets them, staring at the words that he had once thought held a higher meaning.

De mortuis nil nisi bonum dicendum est.

He still doesn't know what it says. He doesn't care.

Then one day, there is a stranger in front of his tank. It's not Dr Wells' son, the one that started coming once Dr Wells had gone. It's someone else, a man with grey hair and dark eyes and a square jaw.

5K-V11 stares at him from his tank, used by now to making out things through the liquid and the glass that distort his perception.

"This is him ?" the stranger asks.

"Yes, Mr Braun, it is," a scientist says. "5K-V11. The immortal man."

"Hmm, I'll believe it when I see it," Mr Braun says, sounding dubious.

"Well," and there is Dr Wells Jr, looking as unpleasant as his father, "How about a test-run ?"

They get him out of the tank, and dressed, like most days. However that day, they dress him into some sort of odd black clothing, something form-fitting and that allows movement quite well. It's a bit odd, but 5K-V11 knows better than to care, or to ask questions. They dye his hair, too, a dark color that is almost black.

They bring him to a room where Mr Braun is waiting, and tell him to sit down. He does. A file is put under his nose, and they tell him to read it, silently. He does too.

Once he's done, he raises his head, looking at Wells Jr blankly. The young man grins, something sharp and different from his father, but still very much unpleasant.

"This," he says, and taps at the picture of a man in his fifties, "Is your target. Your mission is to kill him."

5K-V11 blinks, and looks down at the picture. He has killed before, he knows. His memories of his escape attempts are blurry from repressing them – he can't afford to think about it, he can't. Still, he remembers the way he would throw people around, the way he unleashed hell on them, trying to get through-

He has killed before. It was easy. He nods.

"If you do this correctly, if the mission is a success," Wells Jr says, cajoling, "You'll get more missions."

It's only once he's taken outside, and he sees the sky again, that he understands what Wells Jr was saying.

There are bracelets around his limbs, that can detonate and stop him if he tries to run again. He's still trapped. But- He's outside.

And if he does this 'mission' or whatever, he'll be allowed out more. Again.

There is a twinge in his heart, and he marches to the truck with the men that are to accompany him. There is no way he'll fail this.

His first mission goes well but, as Mr Braun says with a quirk to his lips, it could be better. 5K-V11 needs 'refining', whatever that means. He doesn't really care to ask.

His brain is still buzzing with the things he's seen outside – the people, the buildings, the things – and the smells, the noises… Everything was so overwhelming and it was wonderful.

Somewhere deep inside of him, something aches for it. For the freedom he had tried to reach once.

Now, he has bombs around his wrists and ankles, he has a tracker chip in his neck, he has guns pointed at his head wherever he goes. He can't escape – not alive, and he won't stay dead long.

Still, he understands one thing.

If he gets 'better', if he succeeds at the other 'missions', if he pleases Wells Jr and Mr Braun…

He'll be let outside some more.

5K-V11 has long since discovered that the fire in his veins can do a lot of things. Oh, he can't make things float, but he can multiply things.

That is, he can make a hundred of bullets rain from a single bullet shot. He can make a million healthy cells in less than a second, healing his wounds immediately. He can multiply his intelligence, his memory, his strength, his mass – anything, as long as he focuses and is determined, he can multiply.

As long as he's determined, desperate enough.

He is. He needs to get outside. To see the sky again.

So he excels.

The scientists say that he's like a sponge, absorbing everything he's taught with no need to repeat it.

5K-V11 does that. He absorbs knowledge, absorbs everything handed to him with a greediness he didn't know he possessed until now.

He needs to become the best, so that's what he does.

He learns languages in weeks, learns to fight, learns tricks to blend into the world, learns a thousand ways to kill someone. He learns maths and science and literature.

And he doesn't stop learning.

After three more missions, all of them running more smoothly than the first, Mr Braun signs a contract with Wells Jr. There is talk of funding, talk of more.

They call him the Immortal Soldier.

5K-V11 doesn't really care. All he cares about is the next mission, the next glimpse of blue sky, the next feel of fake freedom.

He doesn't even think about running away again. That thought, that desire, has been stamped out of him with ruthless efficiency years ago.

He doesn't realize that, with all that he's learned, with his abilities, he could do it. He could get free.

But even though he has a slight taste of freedom each time he goes on a mission, he's still very much a caged animal, raised in captivity. Freedom is as tantalizing as it is terrifying. He wouldn't know what to do, if free.

The only home he knows is his tank, and the facility to a greater extent.

He doesn't think about running.

Until the day he does.

In a way, 5K-V11 being so broken is what saves him. No one in the facility really remembers how he once tried to destroy everything in his path to get out. No one thinks he will try it again.

They are right, for now.

But with every mission that 5K-V11 completes, he finds himself wanting more.

Eventually, that want, and that urge deep within his bones, will yield results.

Until then, his fire keeps dormant.

Mr Braun is getting older and older, wrinkles all over his face, stains on his skin that won't go away, a milky sheen in his eyes. Wells Jr is getting old too, his once young face now marked by the years, his hair getting grey, his movements less fluid.

Eventually, Mr Braun leaves way for Mr Himmel.

It means Sky, in German. For 5K-V11, to whom the sky is the proof of freedom, it's like a sign, a prophecy.

Mr Himmel will lead him to freedom, whether he knows it or not.

5K-V11 has done too many missions to count, has been in more situation than he can recall – and he can recall a lot.

Killing, stealing, blowing things up or stealthily going somewhere. He has done this, he has done more.

He has been to war, clad in the usual dark garb they dress him with, an automatic weapon in his hand, a unit of soldiers and ex-agents of something at his back, an order to destroy the enemy. He does, leaving a bloody, burning path for his unit to follow through. He doesn't care for the bombs flying, for the bullets ripping his flesh apart. He feels pain, sure, but it's something he's used to by now. So he carries on, killing as he goes, and that evening his handlers congratulate him, telling him nonsensical things.

"You've served your country well !" They crow.

As if he was loyal to a country, as if he knew what loyalty was like. As if he cared. As if he didn't know what they whisper behind his back.

The immortal man, the monster, the freak of nature that wouldn't go down, and oh aren't we glad he isn't our enemy.

He keeps the unit. They call it the Immortal Soldier unit, because he doesn't die and because with his strategies the men and women he leads don't die either.

5K-V11 isn't sure why they gave him a group of people that aren't related to the facility or to mercenaries to lead.

Later, he will be glad for it.

For now, he simply gets them through another battle, another mission, another 'you served your country well'.

With every mission that goes, his unit becomes easier to work with. They are used to him by now, they know him, they trust him to get the job done – although they can't trust him with their lives, unless protecting them is in his mission order.

It's a slow process, but eventually, they start treating him like he's human. Like he's one of them. It starts small, with one of them – a woman, Lila, if his memory serves – sighing in satisfaction once the job is done.

"Another good one," she says, and turns to the others, who are smiling tiredly and stretching. "How about we go grab a drink before we leave ?"

"Now you're talking !" Someone exclaims, and they laugh.

5K-V11 watches them, mostly out of boredom and curiosity – after all this time, he still has a lot of trouble with human interactions that doesn't involve orders or pain. But he watches them, because he needs to know how to blend in, too, and so he learns, absorbs it all like a sponge.

Lila catches him looking, and something hesitant crosses her face. Then she asks - blurts out, really, 5K-V11 doubts it was intended.

"Want to come with us, commander ?" She asks.

5K-V11 blinks. Go with them to grab a drink ? Meaning, if he recalls, getting something to drink in a- a bar ? He's never really been to a bar, not for the purpose of drinking. Oh, he went in one to poison this one guy, and another time to shoot this one gang, and other times for other missions. But. Certainly not to 'grab a drink'.

"Is it authorized ?" He asks, because there are bombs around his wrists and ankles and he doesn't want to be detonated for a misunderstanding.

"Sure," a man with blond hair tells him, sounding strained, "We only need to report in two hours. Plenty of time."

5K-V11 nods, and accepts in the same breath. They all share glances, like they're not sure if it's a good thing or not, but eventually they leave, talking and smiling among themselves, and Lila is the one to find the bar and pay for his drink.

It tastes terrible. It tastes new.

He must have done a face, because the blond man from before laughs at it, and asks him what's wrong.

"The taste is odd," 5K-V11 replies. He drinks some more – nope, still tastes bitter and probably bad, but he still drinks it. He can't recall the last time he has drunk something that wasn't medicine or water.

"You don't like it ?" the man asks, looking amused.

"I don't know," 5K-V11 replies.

The man laughs when he finishes his drink anyway.

5K-V11 learns their names. There is Lila, and the blond man is named Karl, and then there is Mihael, and then the one everyone calls Little, for some reason. There is Donna, too, and Ash, but they are less talkative, they keep their distances.

One day, while they are eating – and Karl is laughing at his face again, because somehow the man never tires of his expression when he tastes something new – Little is the one to ask.

"I've never asked, commander, but what's your name ?" he asks.

"5K-V11," he replies, and goes back to eating. He notices immediately when they go silent and still, and tenses, looking around – because they are still 'out on a mission' and danger can be everywhere. He looks around, making it look natural, doesn't see any threats, turn back to them, "What ?"

"Commander," Lila says, "That's not a name, that your matriculation."

They all have one. They are all either special operation agents, or military, or any other organisation like that. Or rather, they were, before they were hired to become part of the Immortal Soldier unit, to 'help their country' and all that. No matter that not all of them are from the same country, that 5K-V11 doesn't even have a fixed nationality.

5K-V11 blinks at her, not really getting it.

"Yes," he says, because it is his matriculation. He adds, "I was never given another name."

The face they make, he doesn't get. Later on, with a much better grasp on human emotions, he'll think on it again an understand that it's pity and horror mixed with a few other things.

They know, on some level, that he isn't like them. He kills too easily, he's too strong, he can do things none of them can, he doesn't get most emotions, his reactions to things are always weird, he stays mostly quiet, and sometimes he doesn't get things that have a subtler meaning or degree of humor. He's a soldier, almost a machine in the way he acts.

Somehow, they hadn't realized what it meant.

It hits them once more, how different, inhuman he is, when the next mission is to assassinate a whole family.

5K-V11 goes in, and while his unit takes care of the alarm and the few staff members, he finds the family. He kills the father and the mother, unblinking, unflinching, a bullet in the brain for the both of them. He doesn't really care for their pleading – many other have plead for their lives, during missions, but success means not listening to pleas.

Pleas never work. He knows. He has begged many times for the scientists to stop, to make the pain stop, to-

"What do we do about the children ?" Mihael asks, about the three kids huddled in a corner, eyes wide and sobbing. Mihael never likes the missions where they need to kill people so directly, already has trouble with killing women.

"The orders are clear, the whole family," Donna says, darkly.

5K-V11 doesn't really understand why they are bickering. He simply walks to the children, who whimper, and before his unit can react, he has pulled the trigger. Three shots. The children fall down, and 5K-V11 puts his gun back in it's holster.

He turns away, intent on walking out and either going back to report or- he wonders, a bit musingly, since when he's gotten used to taking some more time outside, getting something to eat or to drink and looking at the buildings and people.

He wonders since when he's been so reluctant to go report, because it means going back.

He doesn't notice the horrified, grim stares of his units, as he walks out of the room.

Mr Himmel is the key to his freedom, although he doesn't realize it. He's the one that gives 5K-V11 the unit in the first place. Then, he's the one that gives them too much time for the missions, that doesn't really care if they report a bit late, if they take the time to grab something to eat, if they go sight-seeing, even.

5K-V11's unit, it's his salvation.

They are the one that eventually sit him down, and ask him questions that he doesn't really understands – why does it matter, where he sleeps, what he does in his free time, what he likes ? They are the one that stare at him in terrible silence, as he tells them that he sleeps in a tank, that in his free time he either trains for the missions or floats in his tank.

He actually likes his tank, he's grown used to the floating sensation, to associating the tank with rest and no pain. It's in the tank that he's left alone, away from the scientists, simply floating and sleeping.

He doesn't say that, though, when they ask what he likes. He says,

"The sky," immediately, not even thinking about it. "I like the sky. It's so blue and big."

5K-V11 has told them about the scientists, about what his bracelets do, about the very bland porridge he eats – he doesn't know he shouldn't, no one has ever told him that such things should stay silent and secret. He doesn't get why they stare at him, and ask more questions about the things he's been through, looking like the world is crumbling.

"Wait," Lila says at one point, "You knew Dr Wells Sr ?"

"Yes," 5K-V11 answers, not understanding why it matters.

"How old are you ?" She exclaims, eyes wide.

"I don't know."

It takes them time, to slowly get through the shell he has constructed around himself to avoid getting hurt again. It takes them more food, more drinks, more questions, more dragging him into conversations and explaining to him why this is funny and why this isn't, and why killing children is bad.

"How would you have felt if it was-" Karl looks at Ash for help.

"5K-V13," Ash supplies, looking like he wants to break something.

"Right," Karl looks the same way, but carries on, "Would you have killed 5K-V13 ?"

5K-V11 slowly shakes his head in the negative. He hasn't thought of the other 5K's in a long time. He doesn't know if they are even still alive. As far as he knows, he's the only 5K to have succeeded. Every 5K before him was dead before he went into his tank. The 5K's above V11, though ?

Wouldn't he have seen them, in all this time ? If they were alive, he might have met them, at some point. Probably.

Still, he thinks that he wouldn't have killed them. He's not quite sure why, yet.

Years go by. 5K-V11 sees his unit grow older, and with each year that goes by he finds himself dreading the next.

It takes him some time before he understands that he's grown attached to them, that he would be sad if they were to die, that he would be alone. Again.

Then one day, Karl asks him, between two sentences gushing about his daughter who's going to be thirteen soon, why he never tried to leave the facility again.

5K-V11 has to admit that he hasn't thought about it – between the tracker and the bombs, and his unit that could put a bullet or two in his head if he so much as headed the wrong way… It was what the unit was for, in the beginning, after all.

Now, though… He looks at him, and notices that the others are being just a tad too loud for it to be natural, and that they are watching him. His paranoia tells him they will sell him out. His instincts though, his flames, that have been growing warmer and warmer lately, that have been itching to finally get free-

It goes mine-mine-friends-mine-trustedally-mine.

"Where would I go ?" 5K-V11 asks, shrugging – a gesture that he has taken from Lila.

"You're smart," Karl counters. "The best strategist we've ever worked for. The best commander. You have learned for years, how to do things like this. Find a plan."

"A plan," 5K-V11 echoes, and looks at his unit. "And then ?"

"We're your unit," Little says, "We'll help you."

It takes a few more years before the plan is ready, and 5K-V11 is ready to use it.

There are safe-houses all over the world for him to use, hidden and known only to him and his unit. In each cache, there is enough money to last him a few years on his own, and some food and water, as well as weapon. 5K-V11 is many things, but ill-prepared isn't it. He prepares, well and long, and for every situation that could arise.

Call it paranoia, call it perfectionism, he calls it survival. He calls it the way to freedom.

Everything is planned, from the tiniest details to the large lines. How it should go, how it will go, how it might go – he has plans for every tiny thing that might go wrong, plans within plans, escape routes for every eventuality, ways to get away everywhere, any time, at any given moment.

He gives his unit plans too – he can't give them his own plans, because someone might use them against him, and he can't risk it, but he can give them some safety. He gives them a few locations, basic information, and dates.

If he succeeds, they'll see each other in China, at a set day, time and location. If he can't make it to this one, the next rendez-vous is in France, at a set day, time and location again. They have one day per year, just in case, for the next decade.

The only things 5K-V11 doesn't have yet is papers.

"I age slower than normal people," he says, when Karl asks him when he should set his birthday. "I don't know when I was born, but more importantly I will probably look like this-" he gestures to himself- "For some time still."

Karl looks at him and grimaces, admitting the point. He himself has some grey in his otherwise blond hair, and a few wrinkles. 5K-V11, though, still looks as he did the day they met him. Like a teenager that just hit a growth spurt, all long limbs and thin features. A pretty boy, Lila calls him when she drinks too much. He looks barely twenty, not even that, and yet they all know that he was probably born earlier than them.

It's chilling, because they know that he will probably outlive them all – and then, who is going to make sure this awkward inhuman person is safe and happy and free ?

"Let's put your birthday on the 1st of November 1946," he eventually says.

"That would make me barely ten years old," 5K-V11 says, flatly.

"In ten years, it'll be perfect, then," Karl grins at him.

5K-V11 relents, because he will probably stay hidden for a full decade, not needing those papers just yet, so what does it matter. They put his nationality as French, because being German or Russian or Bulgarian or any Eastern European nationality like they all are is risky these days. Sure, French isn't much better, but 5K-V11 doesn't really care.

It's not like he has loyalty to any of those countries.

Then, they move on to the name, and they fall silent, because all this time 5K-V11 has never moved on from his matriculation number, and he doesn't really want to. It's the only identity he ever had, and he doesn't want it to fade, doesn't want to forget. It might be stupid, but he doesn't see the point of erasing his past. He knows it's part of him, knows it might come to chase him later on.

Thoughtfully, he writes it down. 5K-V11. 5K-vll. 5kvll. Karl looks at it, face unreadable, before suddenly humming thoughtfully.

"Looks like the English word Skull doesn't it ?" He says. "If you write it a bit more quickly, the 5 looks like an S, the V like an U, and the 1 like an L."

"Skull, means skull, doesn't it ?" 5K-V11 says. He adds, slowly, "I suppose it could work."

"Great !" Karl grins. "Now, any idea for the family name ? Something French, possibly, since you are apparently French now, you traitor."

5K-V11 sends him an unimpressed look, even as Karl starts muttering under his breath.

"Something French," he mutters, "Like- 'DuBlanc' or Dubois, Dupont… Or maybe De ? Delacour ? Derue ?"

Starting with De ? 5K-V11 can't help it, he starts writing down the phrase that he knows by heart, even though he still doesn't know what it means.

De mortuis nil nisi bonum dicendum est.

Karl looks at it, and raises a brow.

"Of the dead say nothing but good ?" He says.

"That's what it means ?" 5K-V11 asks, looking at Karl with wide eyes.

"Yeah, my old history teacher used to say that," Karl nods, "Means that we ought not to speak ill of the dead." He glances at 5K-V11. "Where did you hear it ?"

"It's written in one of the labs," 5K-V11 replies quietly, staring at the paper in front of him.

Karl does the same, and eventually smiles grimly as he circles the two first words.

"Mortuis isn't French, but Mort means-"

"Dead, yes," 5K-V11 nods. He blinks, "So, Demort could possibly be a name ?"

"A very grizzly one, but sure," Karl nods. He grins. "It'll be ironic, at least."

And so, Skull Demort is officially born the 1st of November 1946, in a little town near Le Puy, a French city in the middle of mountains and sleeping volcanos.

In reality, he's born in the middle of August, in a little bar in Romania, with a few words written on a paper-towel, while drinking a beer.

It will be years, decades even, before 5K-V11, Skull discovers when he truly was born.

The plan goes without a hitch. Just before going back to the airport, to take a plane that will bring him back to the facility, Lila drags him into a toilet cubicle with a scalpel.

5K-V11 does nothing but grit his teeth as she cuts into his neck, trying to restrain his fire from closing the wound too soon. It takes her three tries to finally get a hold of the tracker buried deep inside him, and when she gives it to him, he puts it carefully in his pocket. His neck is bloody, but it's nothing that some toilet paper and some water can't roughly wash off.

He's always bloody, no one will pay attention.

None of his unit boards the plane. They never do - they don't belong in the facility, don't even know where it is. They say goodbye, and leave him with his guards, the one that are responsible for putting bullets in his brain if he misbehaves.

5K-V11 has never rebelled, has always been a very quiet, calm target for them. They don't think that today, of all days, he will try something – he hasn't tried anything in their memories.

So none of them are prepared when, thirty minutes into the flight, he steals a gun and fires one single shot. Purple fire makes the bullet a dozen, and each bullet lands in a head. There isn't time for them to realize what happens, isn't time to warn the facility, or the pilot. One single muffled bullet shot isn't enough to alert anyone of anything.

5K-V11 grabs everything he finds, and with the knowledge he has crammed into his brain, he makes an explosive. Carefully, uncaring that he's tearing his skin, that he needs to break his own bones to make it possible, he gets the bracelets off himself, and adds them to the contraption. Ignoring the pain, the way his body is already trying to get back the right way, he puts the thing in one of the vents. He puts the tracker on one of the bodies in the corridor.

Then, carefully, he sets on sabotaging everything he can get his hands on.

Once done, he grins, and grabs a lighter. He throws it at some alcohol imbued seat, and watches it go in flames. Quickly, everything starts burning, and then-

5K-V11 closes his eyes, rolls himself into the tiniest ball he can, protected by a few seats and layers upon layers of clothes.

The plane explodes.

There is a wide search for any survivors, but they don't find any. No one, not even 5K-V11, could survive such an explosion and the following drop, miles until you hit the ocean so hard every bone breaks on impact. Even if they survived this, the plane dropping on their head, and then the ocean swallowing them would be enough to finish the job.

Even a so-called immortal couldn't survive this.

The facility doesn't find all the bodies, doesn't get all of the plane- It was a very destructive explosion, and the ocean is too deep. They rule it an attack from one of their many enemies – maybe Americans. They pronounce 5K-V11 dead.

The Immortal Soldier unit finds themselves out of a job, and mourning.

A year later, in a little restaurant in China, they meet up with Skull Demort, and they drink to the success of a well-laid plan.

Freedom suits Skull.

Lila tells him so each time they meet, in those tiny places they go once a year to share news and memories. She tells him that sure, he was a great commander, still is, but- he was a sad one. A stifled one.

Freedom suits him, the way smiles and laughs suits him, the way the light in his eyes suits him.

Skull had so much trouble learning how to be human, before he was free. Now, though- he takes to life like a fish to water. He smiles as if he hadn't learnt how to do that in the last month, laughs as if the sound had been coming out of him since he was a boy.

The unit smiles and laughs with him, each time he does, because they remember the awkward, too serious 5K-V11 that had never learned to be happy. They are glad, stupidly glad, that he can learn it now. Better late than never.

The years go by, and Skull finds that he doesn't tire of exploring the world, of his hard-earned freedom.

It's been a few years by now, and the facility isn't searching for him. He stills changes his looks from time to time, never daring to go back to his purple hair and eyes just yet. He'll do that, maybe, later.

For now, though, he just travels. He visits every country, every city on his way, drifts all over the world just because he can.

There is so much to see, so much to learn ! Sure, he had known, had seen some of it during his missions, had learned about it in the facility- But it's different, experiencing it now, as Skull. Now he can just go somewhere, take a book, read it, and then take a nap under the sky and dream about where he'll go next.

He finds a motorcycle, and keeps it – he has learned how to drive one, for his missions, but he never realized before now that he likes it.

He decides, on a whim, to join a circus. They paint his face with over the top make-up, he adds piercings, and he lets his hair and eyes go purple again. Skull Demort is a wonderful stage name, and he likes flying on his bike. He feels like a bird, like he's so much closer to touching the sky.

The fire in his vein has never felt so content and warm before.

Except that the years go by, and Skull finds that he never tires.

He doesn't get tired, doesn't get hurt, doesn't grow older.

Of course, it's now that he's free, now that he cares, that he realizes that he will outlive everyone he cares for. And when he meets his unit again, this time in America in a bar, and they take a picture – another, one for each year, for each meeting – he hates himself, just a little.

Because he's the only one that doesn't change, in those pictures.

One would think that after so many years spent having to go back into a tank of liquid, Skull would have a fear of aquariums, of drowning, or be claustrophobic.

While he does have a very real fear of being imprisoned again, of never seeing the sky again, he doesn't mind the rest.

In fact, he finds himself fascinated by marine biology. So much that he goes to a college in Britain, and gets into the marine biology courses, to feed his growing interest. He visits many aquariums, and while he does feel bad for the fish there, he doesn't mind it too terribly.

He does kidnap one tiny red octopus, though, from this one aquarium that treated it and the other animals so poorly Skull had to restrain himself from killing them all. He names the little guy Oodako, after the giant octopus in that Godzilla movie he saw in 1962. Then, he makes sure the proper authorities are alerted to the terrible conditions in that aquarium, right before bankrupting the bastards.

He does have quite the vindictive streak.

He orders a large tank for Oodako, for his preferred hidden safe-house. It easily takes a whole room, and Skull spares no expense to make it perfect for his companion.

And if he sometimes finds himself getting into the tank and simply sleeping, purple flames making sure the amount of oxygen in his blood is always enough so that he doesn't need to breathe, well. Skull blames it on the fact that he spent years with a tank as his resting place, and that beds have the tendency to remind him of operation tables, when he has a particularly bad night.

It's not as if anyone but Oodako knows about it, and the tiny octopus seems very happy to have someone to share his space with. Who is Skull to upset his friend ?

Friends, he thinks, later on, and he smiles slowly, the way he has learned to those past years, I have friends.

In 1974, Skull meets a man in a mask and an Iron Hat. He has seen weirder, has lived through a lot, will probably see weirder and live through a lot more.

He accepts the proposition of a meeting, because he's curious, and because if push comes to shove, he knows he will survive.

Besides, after living so long knowing he was the strongest, he wants to meet the others like him. He wants, he hopes that they are like him.

They are not like him – they grow old, they tire, they don't see the world like he does, with eternal gratitude for the sky above their heads.

They think he's weak, and the thought is so hilarious that he lets them, that he helps them think so.

(He once broke through walls to escape his prison. Broke his own bones on the way.

He did missions alone, without breaking a sweat.

He has commanded a unit of six people, and succeeded in every mission, no matter how impossible.

He has gone against an army and won. He has fought a war, and killed too many people to count.

He has survived a plane exploding and then throwing his charred body in the sea.

He was the immortal soldier, the commander, the strongest, fastest, the best in any field he cared to learn.

He's anything but weak.

They don't need to know that, though.)

In the end, he gets new missions, and he finds it endlessly funny how the others can't get along, can't really listen well to orders. He would never have let it stand, had he been the one in charge.

Still, they succeed, and a part of Skull wants to go back to his safe house and curl up in his tank with Oodako after each success.

Instead, he goes up trees, and roofs, and sleeps there, close to the sky, until one of the others find him and drag him back to his bed.

In the end, he survives.

And if he gets turned into a child, well. It's not like he looked his age anyway.

He does wonder how he's going to explain it to the ever grayer unit, though. Karl is going to be insufferable.

End

Hey, so this is done ! I have no clue where I'm going with this, as it was mostly done on a whim and as the result of too many 'Skull can't really be this weak' fics. (Have you guys read Ballad of the Femme Fatale by SecretEngima ? It's amazing. You don't even need to know Transformers to read it.)

I might continue this. Maybe. Later. No promises, though.

Please leave a review on your way out, you know how much this means to us fanfic authors ! Any form of feedback is appreciated !

Also, I apologize if there is any mistake in my grammar or anything else. English isn't my first language, so if you find a mistake, please tell me and I'll come back to correct it ! :D

Thank you so much for reading ! (and maybe reviewing ? Pretty please with a cherry on top ?)