Nope, this story's not dead! I just wasn't really sure what was happening, and then got distracted writing other things.
Translations are at the bottom.

"On ne mozhet bytʹ daleko," called out a deep voice. Lovino jumped. So he hadn't lost them after all.

"There he is!" another voice yelled, and out of the corner of his eye Lovino could see half-a-dozen black-clad minions, their faces concealed by balaclavas. Several of them were brandishing guns and were starting to aim upon sighting their prey.

Lovino yelped and sprinted away, oblivious to where he was going as cold concrete walls and sharp corners flashed past. All he wanted was to get away from these men, to get out of this dark, dank basement and be free again. To think he'd wanted a bit of excitement and responsibility when he snuck out here. Well, now he was responsible for his own life and his very freedom was on the line. Think I've had rather too much excitement for one goddamned lifetime. Stupid Spanish bastard, abandoning me in a place like this. And to think I thought he cared. Bastard.

But the sounds of gunshots and footsteps were getting closer all the time. It was a miracle he hadn't been shot already. If only he was able to stop them somehow.

Almost too late Lovino remembered the Beretta concealed in the inside pocket of his jacket. He ripped open the zip and pulled the gun out, almost losing it out of his sweaty, fumbling fingers. The gun bucked in his grip as he began firing desperately behind him. There were several immediate and shocked howls as his bullets found their mark.

"Watch out! The little slimeball's armed!" the voice shouted again, this time reverting back to English. This was followed swiftly by an anguished cry as a bullet hit its owner. With a victorious grin, Lovino whipped around a corner, knocking over a pile of chemical storage drums in an effort to slow his pursuers further.

He risked a quick glance behind him and saw three gangsters still following. Aiming his Beretta again, he pulled the trigger, sending the walls and one of the men exploding in a shock of plaster, cement and blood. Unconcerned, the two remaining men leapt over their fallen colleague and continued with their pursuit.

Spurred on by his improving marksmanship, Lovino stopped and spun round, pointing his gun at the men.

"See you in hell, bastards!" he yelled, pulling the trigger again. But, instead of blasting his enemies away, the gun let out only a hollow clicking. Terror clenched Lovino's heart as he realised he was out of ammunition. The men grinned and advanced again, sniggering through clenched yellow teeth. Drawing a petrified breath, Lovino turned again and fled as fast as he could, thankful for his quick feet and reasonable fitness. Italian blood was helpful in many situations. But fitness couldn't save him forever. His pursuers were highly trained and the basement floor was a complete maze. He couldn't even find a place to hide for a few seconds, let alone a staircase that lead to freedom. Survival was an increasingly faint light at the end of an ever-lengthening tunnel.

Lovino darted down another increasingly dank corridor, breath drawing sharp and painful up his throat. The footsteps thudded behind him, echoing off the walls. They were still getting closer, probably only behind the previous corner. He was completely defenseless and rapidly running out of energy. His legs were screaming agony, and the bruises he must have sustained from his staircase tumble were beginning to poke holes in his rational thought with persistent barbs of pain.

"Psst! Over here!" a sudden voice cried out from nearby, startling him out of his remaining wits.

Lovino's head whipped around as he stalled, trying to source the unexpected voice. A green eye poked out of a crack in a door a few feet ahead.

"Come on!" the voice said urgently. "If you want to live, get in here!"

His pursuers ever closer, Lovino didn't see that he had a choice. He ran forward and ducked behind the door, which the mysterious stranger quickly shut behind him. Wherever he was now plunged into complete darkness. He held his breath, heart pounding shockwaves through his body.

Thunderous noises and shouting sounded outside the door as his pursuers rounded the corner and closed in, and he couldn't help tensing as he listening to the sounds with every fibre of his body. Slowly, the footsteps began to away as the men chased a now non-existent prey down the corridor. Flooded with relief, Lovino's trembling legs gave way and he collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath.

"Are you alright?" the disembodied voice of his rescuer enquired. He had a curious accent, some sort of Eastern European. Probably Russian, knowing the company he was keeping here already.

"Yeah, now I am," Lovino panted through jumping breaths. "Those bastards were out to kill me." The world was disoriented; he was still in slight disbelief at his close escape. The room seemed to be spinning, although since there was still no light, it was all the more nauseating. He was still struggling to breathe, and pain was beginning to gnaw at his muscles, even though they were no longer in use. His legs felt like half-melted jelly.

"Mr Braginski rarely will show mercy to his enemies," the voice agreed. "It is probably best you wait here until the coast is clear." There was a short pause. "Are you sure you're alright?" The voice moved across the room, accompanied by quiet footsteps. Lovino's eyes darted about and he silently cursed the fact that he couldn't see. With the adrenaline still running high through his system, he was still expecting an attack at any moment, and there was no guarantee that this man was a friend. It was possible he had just walked into an even worse death-trap than the one he'd just escaped. There was more painful ways for life to end than by a bullet, and most of them meant involuntary betrayal of his family and friends.

There was a brief click, making Lovino jump, then a bright, burning light sparked into life. Lovino shut his eyes, temporarily blinded. After a few seconds, he cautiously opened one eye and found a watery forty-watt glow flowing through the room, emanating from a bare lightbulb dangling off a cord from a bare ceiling. It was a small storage room, perhaps only four metres square, with label-less boxes lining shelves against the far side, and cold breezeblocks the only wall-covering.

The owner of the friendly voice turned out to be a young man stood by the light switch. He was maybe a year or two older than Lovino was, with floppy shoulder-length brown hair and a kind smile. His eyes were green, not a familiar forest green like Antonio's; more of a lighter spring green, yet still vaguely reassuring. But his faded green jacket was grubby and ragged around the edges, and there were dark circles under his eyes, a clear indicator that Lovino wasn't the only one who'd been finding things rough recently.

He knelt down next to Lovino, eyebrows raised in concern. "Try to breathe deeply, and don't think too much for the moment. You've just got out of a taxing situation, it's ok to be a bit panicked."

"I'm not…fucking…panicked," Lovino tried his best to growl, but through a dry throat and panted breaths, the words were less than convincing. He was slightly panicked, but that was just a side-effect of the adrenaline. And he certainly wasn't about to admit his distress to a complete stranger, especially one he'd met in a hostile location, and unfortunately seemed to owe his life to. It never hurt to keep information to oneself.

"Ok," the other smiled sympathetically, as if trying to understand Lovino's point of view. "Just keep breathing, though. You're not in danger anymore, at least not for the moment."

"Not for the moment? The fuck?" Lovino scowled. To his annoyance, the man's advice seemed to be working, and he felt himself begin to calm down a little. Not that he wasn't on edge still.

"You're not working with us," Lovino noted suspiciously, staring into the man's tired emerald eyes. "And we don't have any allies, so you must be working for Ivan. Why are you helping me?"

The other sighed sadly, regretfully. "'Working for' is putting my situation rather loosely. I am rather stuck here; Ivan kidnapped me shortly after he set off the missiles, and I am unable to leave. He has armed guards around the perimeter, you see. Going out weaponless is far too risky."

"If you're stuck, how d'you expect me to get out then, damn it?" Lovino was beginning to realise he wasn't quite out of the woods yet, even if he had acquired an unexpected ally. Albeit one he didn't quite trust. His second question hadn't got answered yet, after all. Evidently there was some sort of ulterior motive.

"A few friends of mine and I have come up with some ideas. However, most of them are a bit haphazard, as none of us are really tacticians, and we're not sure if they'll work, especially with our limited capabilities. None of us are particularly good marksmen, for one thing. You see, one of the best plans that we have come up with requires weaponry to escape. You seem like a fairly good shot, from what I heard back there. If we can provide you with ammunition, there's a way out for all of us."

Lovino frowned. "Plans. Right. So you're expecting to come with me?"

The other nodded. "Yes, that would be nice. It is rather hellish here. Plus, there is somewhere I was supposed to be a while ago, and an important promise I need to fulfill." The final traces of happiness had disappeared from his face at this, and he just looked lost and ashamed.

"Huh," Lovino answered, unsure of how to properly respond. He'd never been good at dealing with other people's emotions, save for anger. He sat up slightly and fiddled with the safety catch of his empty and useless Beretta, just for his hands to have something to do. The still-fading adrenaline rush was making him restless.

The stranger checked his watch nervously. "We'll need to be here for about two hours, to allow the heat of whatever you were just involved in to die down. After that we'll go to meet my friends, Eduard and Raivis, and go through the plan, as they don't really know that you're here, or that you'll help us. The change of guard is at ten o'clock, and we'll need to be ready by then. It's ten to seven now, so at the moment its a matter of killing time."

"Yay," Lovino muttered sarcastically. Things seemed to be moving way too fast at the moment; all he really wanted was a few minutes to catch his breath and come to terms with just how much trouble he was in. One minute he was trying to get a bit of adventure for himself, then he was being shot at by psychopathic Russian gangsters, and now a stranger working for the other side was trying to help him escape. It was all rather impossible for his brain to comprehend. He wondered to himself if he would ever see his family and Antonio again, trapped like this. How many times had he narrowly avoided death in the last ten minutes? It was mind-shattering. Part of him just wished he'd fallen asleep in the boot of Alfred's car, and in a few minutes Antonio would wake him up and it was all just an awful dream. What was amusing, if it could be called that, was that the guy was assuming that Lovino would help, even though he'd committed to nothing. Although, if Lovino thought about it, suicidal escape plans with a stranger were preferable to torture and death.

The brown-haired guy sat down and settled against the back shelf. "You came here with Alfred Jones and his friends, didn't you? I haven't seen you with them before."

"No," Lovino said shortly. The room was refusing to stay still again, and it was making him nervous and irritable.

"Are you sure you're alright?" The other was looking at him with that concerned expression again.

Lovino shut his eyes and leant back against the cold wall, shuddering slightly at the dramatic contrast in temperature, although it was relieving. "Yes, damn it. Just...just give me a minute." Slowly, the stars in front of his vision receded and he began to calm down. He opened his eyes again and let out a relieved breath.

The other man smiled at him and sat back against the shelving on the far wall. "Ok now?"

Lovino nodded.

"Good. It'd be a bit hard for you to receive medical attention in here if you were hurt badly. But you've got quite a while to recover now, so don't worry."

"Mmm," Lovino agreed quietly.

"By the way, if you don't mind me asking, what is your name?" It was an oddly normal question in this craziest of circumstances.

Lovino looked up, unsure whether to answer with the truth or not. But, like it or not, the man had saved his life, so he guessed he was trustworthy until he found evidence otherwise. "Oh. It's Lovino. Lovino Vargas."

"Ah, so I guess you're Italian? I've heard it's nice there. I'm Lithuanian, myself."

"'K," Lovino replied vaguely. "What d'you go by? Or am I not allowed to know that?"

The Lithuanian laughed nervously. "Not at all. If we're fighting for the same end, there's little cause for secrecy. It'll just cause unnecessary divides. My name's Toris Laurinaitis."

Lovino jumped as if hit by lightning as the name struck a chord in his memory. "What?"

The other – Toris – drew back slightly, worry flickering across his face. "I'm sorry? Did I say something wrong?"

"No..." Lovino muttered slowly. So this was Toris Laurinaitis. The guy Feliks had been looking for, with no leads. And he'd just found him, through random coincidence. Lovino couldn't believe it. He wasn't what Lovino had been expecting, though. After everything Feliks had been saying, Lovino had been expecting Toris to be some kind of God incarnate with an Adonis body. But now, Toris just looked like an ordinary nervous-looking guy in his late teens or possibly very early twenties. Kind of jumpy, kind of wistful, but quiet and sympathetic, at a guess. He seemed to be quite a contrast to Feliks, although perhaps it was a complementing one.

Nevertheless, he had to be sure. "You don't happen to know a guy called Feliks Łukasiewicz, do you?" he asked hesitantly.

Toris gasped and leant forward, hardly daring to hope. "You know Feliks?"

Lovino nodded as he was proven correct. "Yeah. We met a couple days after the missile attacks, and he's helping us with all this stuff."

"And he's ok?" Despite his obvious exhaustion, there was a sudden bright light in Toris' eyes.

"Well, yeah, but he's a bit pissed at you. You keep blanking his damn calls. Oh yeah, and you didn't meet him when you said you would," Lovino replied with his characteristic bluntness.

Toris sighed and rested his head against his knees. "He would be, wouldn't he? I should have done something; told him when I had the chance. He's going to hate me, and I wouldn't blame him. But as long as he's safe. That's what matters."

Lovino raised an eyebrow. "You don't care if he hates you? That's one of the oddest perspectives I've heard, and I live with my brother."

"Well, I do care," Toris looked up again and smiled wryly. "But I would rather he was safe and hated me than died loving me."

Lovino frowned slightly. He wasn't quite sure what to make of this selfless attitude "You guys are, you know, together, aren't you? It's kinda obvious from anyone who's met Feliks."

"Yeah. We've been going out since lower sixth - since we were sixteen. It's been about two and a half years, maybe a bit more. Feliks tends to be the one who keeps count. We're probably not the first people you'd pair together, but it really seems to work between us." Toris had a content, almost dreamy smile on his face when talking about Feliks.

Lovino didn't reply. For some reason, he kept thinking of Antonio.

"That's why I'd like to get out as soon as possible. It's been weeks since I've seen him, and I really miss him. I really need to apologise for not being there like I said I would."

"Hmmph. To be honest, I don't think he'd care. As long as you come back, he seems like the type who'd be happy. Operative part being 'coming back'. What is happening with us getting out of this place anyway, damn it?" Now that he seemed to be relatively safe, Lovino's normal attitude was beginning to return.

Toris checked his watch again. "It's five past seven now. So we've got an hour and forty minutes to kill here before we should go find Eduard and Raivis. It's a bit dangerous out there, you see, and it's best to wait till things die down after that shoot-out."

"Great. Just damn great," Lovino groaned. Looked like he had to escape death by boredom too. At least he had someone to talk to. Whoop-de-fucking-do.

XxxxX

By the time he'd covered the distance to the compound, Feliks' bravado had faded, to be replaced by a fear that was beginning to bite his insides. He was crouched in the middle of a bush about fifty feet from the walls, with leaves in his hair and sharp branches poking unforgivingly at his already aching limbs. Despite his discomfort and uncertainty, he was fairly glad – he'd been lucky to find this spot without being noticed by the guards that lined the wall and the binocular-wielding snipers in the tall towers mounted at each corner. Then again, this section had been accessible only by trailing under thorn bushes and through twelve feet of thick mud that was six inches deep, and it had taken ages. Feliks' shoes were ruined, and his trousers weren't faring much better. Mud squelched unpleasantly in his socks and between his toes, making him cringe.

It was almost dark now, too, although the floodlighting around the compound meant that it didn't matter too much out here, except for the long shadows cast where the walls blocked the streams of light. Well, it didn't matter, apart from the fact that the darkness, combined with the deadly patrols, evil gangsters and his captured boyfriend, creeped the hell out Feliks.

The building itself was enormous, for one thing, a mountain of black stone and faded bricks, dotted with tiny windows reminiscent of a prison. That wasn't a helpful thought. Feliks didn't want to end up a prisoner here. He wasn't likely to see Toris if they were locked up at opposite ends of a giant, inescapable dungeon. And with all the guards around, it was pretty likely that Feliks was going to get spotted without some kind of invisibility cloak. A slight-built teenager, sprayed with dust and mud and dressed in a combination of motorbike leathers, tattered blue jeans and slim-fit trainers was going to stick out like a sore thumb. Any guard worth his money would spot him a mile off and riddle him full of bullets before he could have a chance to duck. He'd have to find a way to make himself fit in a bit more. Perhaps steal a guard's uniform and pose as one of those to find his way into the inevitable dungeon where Toris probably was. His Russian wasn't atrocious; it would probably be a while before anyone would suspect him of being an impostor as opposed to a new guy.

But to do that, he had to get over the wall, and that was patrolled by armed guards too. How many minions did this guy have? At this rate, he'd get shot before he'd even come out from behind the bush. And that would completely suck.

Ok, so he didn't have any weapons, so he couldn't take out the guards from here. And he wasn't much good at hand-to-hand combat, so he couldn't drop in on them and kick all their asses before they could even reach for their guns. There didn't look to be a little drain or hole that he could sneak through into a ventilation system. And at a guess, gangster-types wouldn't fall for the 'chuck a rock and sneak around while the guards are distracted' trick. Feliks was beginning to feel rather helpless, not to mention useless. Nothing had ever begun to prepare him for breaking into massive fortresses, or knocking out guards, or anything that was actually needing to be useful.

There was a sudden burst of gunfire from the other side of the compound, making Feliks jump. The guards at the top of the gate were on the move, shouting urgently and cocking their guns as they ran. Feliks couldn't believe his luck. Here was a way in, looking him right in the face, and it was no longer guarded. Something – whatever had activated all that gunfire – was causing a bigger uproar than the guards directive to hold their posts. But Feliks didn't think much about that, aside from briefly hoping the gunfire wasn't aimed at his friends.

Feliks gritted his teeth in determination, instantly regretting the action as he tasted oil, and snuck out of his hiding place. Now his only problem was how to get over the wall – three metres of thick stone was hardly built for climbing, even if Feliks was good at it. There weren't even any handy trees nearby for him to climb. Whoever had designed this place did not have the feelings of any trespassers in mind. This certainly wasn't anything like the movies. In the movies, there was always a tree nearby, or a sturdy vine growing up the wall, or the hero had brought a grappling hook. Feliks had never thought to bring a bag full of useful stuff, or even a bag at all. All he had was the contents of his pockets – his phone, a slightly-used tissue, his wallet, two hairclips, half a pack of sweets that he'd swiped from the kitchen, and the grime-coated gloves that had grown too hot for his hands. Not exactly the prepared-for-anything equipment of a potential intruder.

All out of ideas, he ran up to the wall and desperately jumped, hoping that his hands would somehow find purchase on the stone, somewhere that he could use as leverage to climb. His fingers raked the stone, burning slightly with friction. To his surprise, and a minute later, delight, his foot contacted something on the fourth or fifth jump and he fell to the floor as a result of the disruption. His ankle twinged as it twisted slightly against the ground, but Feliks didn't care. Quickly, he picked himself up, and looked at where he'd just been jumping. Sure enough, there was a brick sticking out about half a metre up from the floor. It wasn't out of line by more than an inch, and it was lucky that Feliks' foot had even found it at all, but again Feliks didn't care. It was a way up, or at least the start of one. He braced the side of his foot against the makeshift hold, unsure about how well it would keep him steady, and balanced against the wall.

Unfortunately, the top was still almost a metre above his head, and Feliks cursed. Did everything have to be against him? Heroic adventures were setting very high standards by making everything easy for the protagonist. It wasn't fair. But he was running out of time and ideas, and resorted to making further desperate lunges at the top of the wall from his elevated height. Once his fingers started complaining at the constant scrapings, he pulled out the gloves again for a bit more protection and continued.

But it seemed, for the moment, that luck was with him, and one jump managed to end up with one hand grasping the edge of the wall. His already tortured muscles were screaming at him again as they were once more forced to bear more weight than they were used to, and it was all Feliks could do not to let go. If I ever get out of this, I'm totally going to start weight training. Anything to, like stop this przeklęty pain. But through some adrenaline-driven burst of desperation, he threw his second hand up, caught the wall, and pulled himself over the edge.

A sudden surge of pain erupted across his left arm, and Feliks glanced down in alarm to see that he'd caught himself on the barbed wire that was concealed beneath the lip of the wall. The barb had bitten straight through the leather jacket and the cut beneath was streaming blood, quickly covering the sleeve in the red liquid. Feliks bit his lip to stop himself from crying aloud. He'd always been squeamish, and the sight of his own blood pouring down his arm was enough to make his stomach churn. His head span, panic once again threatening to rise.

But again, instinct to survive took over, and he realised he had to get out of here before the guards came back, or at least find a safe place to hide. Clasping one hand over the wound, with no thought for infection from the grime on his gloves, he sprinted down a nearby staircase which was miraculously still guard-free. At the bottom, the black-drenched room was as deserted and cold as a desert at night and, to Feliks' horror, the door was guarded by a coded digital lock, squatting like a toad above the handle.

He couldn't go back up, he'd get spotted for sure. But his only way out of here was blocked. Feliks looked about desperately, perhaps for somewhere to hide until someone else opened the door. Then he could sneak out behind them, maybe.

There was a large fusebox off to his left. It was easily big enough to hide in, but its door was padlocked, presumably to prevent anyone screwing with the lights. The shadow of the stairwell could conceal him under a cursory glance, but if the guards were on the lookout, they'd check there and find him. The only other place that would fit him was a large box on wheels, somewhat like a dumpster, but smaller and more sanitary-looking. It was covered in Cyrillic characters that were too dark to read. Feliks cursed; he was rapidly running out of options.

Footsteps on the staircase above almost scared him out of his skin. Feliks made a split-second decision and chose the box, pulling the plastic lid open and scrambling haphazardly inside. He landed painfully on a bunch of small metal objects – he couldn't tell what – which set off a startlingly loud series of clinking noises.

"What was that?" a gruff voice said in Russian a few feet above him, instantly confirming his fears.

"What was what?" growled a second voice, who sounded like a KGB officer out of a spy film.

"A noise. I heard somethin'. Like someone janglin' their keys. Then a weird snap."

Feliks shut his eyes and held his breath, muttering a silent prayer that they wouldn't search the place. He was utterly trapped now, with only a layer of plastic between him and bullet-ridden death.

Second Voice replied promptly, "You're hearing shit, idiot. There wasn't a noise. C'mon, we've got to go get the vehicles and see if we can track down that guy who just got over the wall. He's shot, he won't get far. And the boss'll have our asses on the line if we don't make up for the lapse in security." There was a series of bleeping noises to accompany these words, then a click.

"Whatever. But I'm tellin' ya, I heard somethin'." The first voice was followed by a noise which was clearly a door opening.

"Shut up," Second Voice replied, then the room went deadly silent again as the door closed with an ominous boom.

Feliks let out a sigh of relief. Safe, for the meantime. Either he had some kind of guardian angel, or the last few minutes were making up for all the moments of bad luck he'd ever had previously. But, on the downside, he'd been too shell-shocked to try getting out the door, which was back to being as impenetrable as ever. There was no way he'd be able to break the code, and Feliks wasn't exactly the most tech-savvy of people as it was. For the moment, he was best off remaining still in this box until he could think of a way out. He was less likely to be discovered if he was hiding.

This was scary, though. Quite probably the scariest thing Feliks had known, and in the past few weeks he'd seen towns blow up, been knocked out and kidnapped, and hung upside-down on the undercarriage of a moving vehicle. At any moment, he could be found out. But it was worth the risk. Inside that building, only fifty metres from where Feliks was lying right now, was Toris. And Feliks was certain that he was going to find him soon. Then it was simply a matter of stealing a car and driving the hell away from here, back to safety. He wondered where Toris would be, and what Braginski would have done. Would he be locked at the back of a cell, alone and scared, but unharmed? Or – and Feliks didn't like to think of this possibility – would he have been hurt? Did Braginski have him for a reason, maybe something to do with Alfred? How much of this didn't he know yet?

Some fifteen minutes later, his contemplation was cut short by further footsteps on the stairs, and Feliks once again paused his breathing. There were more people than before, it sounded, but their voices were too muffled to hear this time. Feliks just waited, hoping that they would pass by like the previous pair.

But the footsteps stopped right next to his hiding place, and Feliks' heart almost stopped there and then as the box began to move slowly forward.

Fuck, I'm totally screwed, Feliks thought in panic, wondering where he was being taken, and if anyone knew if he was inside or not.

The strange metal objects around Feliks rattled constantly, knocking against the walls of the container, and against Feliks' wounds. But he daredn't cry out. If he hadn't been discovered yet, making a loud noise would certainly give him away.

It seemed like eternity before the movement stopped and the deafening noise in his ears returned to just the gentle hum of the guards' voices nearby. He had no idea where he was now. He could have been wheeled back out of the compound, rendering all his efforts useless, or he could now be right at the building's heart. Or worse – he could be sat in an incinerator, waiting for a man to pull the lever to send a box full of rubbish to oblivion. He couldn't know, not knowing what the container he was in was for. All he could do was wait. Wait and hope.

Inside of the box, the petrified Feliks lay stock-still, almost too scared to breathe. The voices nearby – although still muffled by the plastic – were getting fainter. Feliks waited until he couldn't hear anything more, then shut his eyes and silently counted to a hundred. Tentatively, he sat up and gently opened the top a crack, thankful that it didn't have catches or locks on the outside. Through the inch or so of gap that he could see through, he quickly discovered that he was once again alone, although now he was inside the dangerous establishment, instead of outside it with a way home. The box looked to have been deposited in a room full of similar boxes, with only a tiny window near the ceiling allowing a thin sliver of moonlight in.

But the quiet and solitude calmed Feliks slightly; there was less chance of getting discovered if there wasn't anyone else around. With renewed energy, he clambered out of the box and landed heavily on the floor, his battered limbs moaning sorrowfully as they were further subjected to movement. His left arm especially was agony. It had been twinging in the background all the way from the wall, but the recent movement had set the pain off again. Thankfully, it had stopped bleeding sometime between the break-in and now, but the torn jacket was matted with blood, as was part of his shirt where the arm had been resting a few minutes ago. Feliks tried flexing it experimentally, but was rewarded only with a searing pain as the arm refused to move past the elbow. He dropped it to his side, fearful that there was something badly wrong with it, but knowing there was nothing he could do. He couldn't go up to the guards and say, 'Hey, I just cut my arm as I was breaking in uninvited. Do you guys, like, have a bandage I could borrow?'

Feliks scowled. This sucked. Completely. But he was in this up to his neck already, and worrying about his dead arm wasn't going to help him find Toris. He was the phoenix, after all. If they tried hurting him, knocking him down, then he'd just get back up, stronger than before, and show all them that they were going to lose. He wasn't sure how much longer he could carry on, but he was damned well going to try.

He walked over to the door, gingerly poking his head outside to check for hostiles. Finding none, he picked a direction at random and headed down the corridor. The floor was bare formica, blank and downmarket, and the bare walls stared blankly at him. But there were plenty of dark spot, corners, and objects to hide behind, and Feliks quickly found use for them on the occasions when he heard footsteps or spotted a black-clad figure. The corridors were a maze, and most looked alike, Feliks quickly realised, condemning himself lost within five minutes. He had even less of an idea where Toris might be. The only thing he had been able to figure out was that he was on the first floor of the building, as one of the windows showed him a view out with the ground several metres below.

But Feliks continued regardless, even though the constant aching in his limbs was beginning to sap his strength and prevent him from thinking straight. It was almost like a strange delirium. Everything was becoming a distraction, and nothing seemed to be a clue as to where either the bad guys or Toris were.

There was a strange black hemisphere on the ceiling in front of him, with a little red light on it. Feliks peered at it curiously, wondering what it was. Probably some sort of alarm, but why it was in the middle of the ceiling was beyond him. The plastic it was made from was mostly reflective, and Feliks let out a brief moment of immaturity by pulling a face at it. Giggling to himself, he kept going, wondering why there were so few people around for a world-dominating mafiya compound.

The corridors continued endlessly, and Feliks couldn't find anywhere that looked like it was for holding people. He'd given up on trying to open doors, as most were locked, and those that weren't held nothing of value. It was still ominously silent, and Feliks could only hear his own footsteps ringing in his ears. They probably weren't too loud, but they sounded deafening to him.

Eventually, he found a staircase at the end of a sterile-white hallway, but to his disappointment there were no signs anywhere. Down would lead either to the ground floor, or to a basement of some kind. The latter was most likely where Toris would be, but Feliks couldn't help thinking that Braginski would be more sneaky than that. But, even though that was most likely where the leaders were, up was more likely to get him trapped somewhere.

Something cold and sharp touched the side of his throat and Feliks froze, suddenly terrified.

"You know what this is?" asked a harsh female voice from behind him in cold Russian tones, confirming his worst fear.

Feliks nodded, neither trusting himself nor daring to speak. The sharpness at his throat was evidently a knife, and the wrong word was likely to lead to his death. Girl or not, whoever was on the other end of the knife wasn't going to be afraid to slit his throat. Great going, głupi, he chided himself with the last of his rational thoughts. Getting captured is totally going to save Liet. Panic was rapidly rising in his mind, clouding any possible plans to make an attempt to save himself. His breathing was rapid and shallow.

"Good. Then I won't have to tell you what will happen if you do not follow my instructions. Now put your hands behind your head and walk forward, keeping a slow pace, and make no move to escape. We do not take kindly to intruders here." The knife dug into his neck slightly, threatening to nick the skin. "Now move. Down the stairs to your left. And if I suspect you aren't obeying me, then I won't hesitate to kill you."

On ne mozhet bytʹ daleko – He can't be far (Russian)

przeklęty – damn (adj.) (Polish)

głupi – idiot (Polish)

A result of Google Translate, so mistakes aren't entirely my fault.

Yay for more cliffhangers.

Erratic updates will still be erratic, but hopefully less than however-stupidly-long it was between chapter 29 and this. *fail*