Author's note: so instead of posting a bunch of random Karl-centric oneshots separately, I thought I'd just go ahead and just do one long story and get it out of my system. Hopefully it's not too WTF-ish. lol

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Prologue

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"Do you know what this is?" Solomon asks. He ties the tourniquet tight around Karl's arm, feeling for the vein. "It's versed," Solomon says. "A powerful somnolytic. It will help you sleep," Solomon says, and Karl nods, wide-eyed and trusting.

Karl's veins are small and delicate, the type an inexperienced man would easily infiltrate. But Solomon is not inexperienced. He pulls the skin on Karl's arm back and the IV goes in easily, the little bubble of blood welling up at the tip. Silently Solomon screws on the catheter and flushes the line with saline. Behind him, Amshel taps his foot, waiting.

Solomon draws up the medication, silently measuring out more than enough to kill a normal human. Until now, they have not been able to sedate Karl-his chevalier's body had rejected all anesthetics-and it was only recently that Amshel allowed Solomon to titrate the medication. "Is it done?" Amshel says. Solomon frowns, grimly.

"Only a moment, brother," Solomon says, and he looks in Karl's eyes.

His breath slows, and on the gurney Solomon can see the way Karl's thin chest heaves with each breath. His eyelids flutter and he doesn't respond when Solomon pinches his skin. "He's unconscious," Solomon says. He looks up at Amshel, nodding.

"He's out," Solomon says. He takes a step backward, wincing internally as Amshel picks up a metal pipe.

Thwack. Solomon turns his head, the the loud crack of metal and bone reverberating against the operating table. Solomon frowns and turns again, watching as Amshel methodically deals the blows: one strike against his neck and shoulder; another against each arm and leg. "Do you know how people die from being 'beaten to death'?" Amshel asks. The bat swings, and with all of Amshel's force smashes into the side of Karl's face. Solomon takes a sharp breath; blood pours out from Karl's wounds. "Internal hemorrhaging, good doctor. Contusions of the internal organs. Blunt force trauma to all the vital parts."

"I do not see why this is necesary," Solomon says. Amshel grins, then sets down the bat.

"Behold," Amshel says, and slowly the bruises on Karl's skin begin to recede. His skin goes from mottled purple to a greenish hue, before involuting to the pale yellow discoloration from an old bruise. "The power of a chevalier," Amshel said. "This was not part of the experiment. Merely the demonstration."

"Ah," Solomon says. He waits uneasily as Amshel disappears behind the curtain.

"We can survive even the harshest of assaults," Amshel says. He steps forward; he's carrying a vial of blood. "But why is it we cannot survive this?"

"Amshel-" Solomon starts, but Amshel grins, setting down the dropper.

"It isn't Saya's," Amshel says. "Rest assured."

Solomon says nothing. More and more the experiments seem to have little point other than to satiate Amshel's sadistic streak; if Solomon were in charge of the experiments, he would be content to experiment on a sample of tissue or hair. "His heartrate is going up," Solomon says. He glances back at the monitor. "He's in a lot of pain."

"He will not remember," Amshel says. "The point, dear doctor, is to see what exactly would impede our healing. To discover the threats to our existence other than Saya's blood."

"I wasn't aware there were any," Solomon said, but Amshel pulled out the dropper.

"There is more to this than building a good defense," Amshel says. The acid burns; the skin sears, bubbling with each drop. "If we discover what can harm us, we discover what can harm him. He is more trouble than she is, you will agree."

"Haji does not attack unless provoked," Solomon says. "Amshel-nii-san, forgive me. But I am afraid these experiments may kill him."

"Then we will have learned something valuable, ne?" Amshel says.

xXx

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Two minutes and 32 seconds. It is the time it takes for Karl's injuries to completely heal. Two minutes and 32 seconds, and with each subsequent injury, two minutes and 32 seconds more elapse.

"Karl," Solomon says, and Karl looks up, crouched in the corner of his cell. A patch of filthy light falls on the concrete floor, and in the grimy darkness Solomon can see the puddles of mud and excrement lining the bottom of the cell. "Are you all right?"

Karl nods but doesn't say anything. Solomon frowns, then reaches into his pocket. The key feels weighty and cool in his hand.

"Drink," Solomon says, and he offers Karl his arm.

It's only a moment's hesitation before Karl descends, gripping Solomon's arm and sinking his teeth into the pulse on Solomon's wrist. Solomon winces-unlike with Diva, Karl's feedings are not pleasurable, only a sharp discomfort and the waxing, waning feeling of dizziness as he loses blood. "Karl," Solomon says. He winces again. "Karl...that's enough."

He releases him, and Solomon draws back, rubbing his wrist as the two puncture marks seal and close. "Amshel is going to restrict your feedings," Solomon says. "He wants to know if it impacts your healing abilities."

"Will it?" Karl asks. His voice is soft. Solomon clears his throat, uncomfortably.

"It probably will," Solomon says. Karl closes his eyes. "Please bear with it."

"Thank you," Karl says. He hunches up into himself, chin tucked behind his knees.

Solomon starts to leave, but as his hand grips the iron bar he stops and turns.

"Your family," Solomon says, and Karl looks up again. "My sources say they're doing well."

Karl nods. His eyes are unfocused, staring at the floor.

"Well," Solomon says. He waits a moment before closing the door.

xXx

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Dust kicked up around his shoes as he walked, and Solomon frowned, shielding his eyes from the sun. Vietnam in the summer was unbearably hot, and in his white suit and leather shoes Solomon was conspicuously out of place. Above him, white sheets of laundry swung on a line and fluttered like banners in the wind, villagers staring at him with narrowed eyes, as barefoot children ran down the dirt roads and through the corrugated shacks around the market.

"An Oriental," Amshel had said. Solomon looked up; Amshel's eyes were fixed, staring down the throng of villagers who watched him cautiously. "If I had to guess the origin of Diva's race, I would most certainly say she is Mongoloid. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Of course," Solomon said.

Of course.

Solomon remembers the first time he met Karl; he was sitting in his study, going over a pile of papers when the cleaning man quietly stepped inside and began emptying trash. Solomon looked up and was thunderstruck.

Beautiful was not the word to describe it: the curve of his back like the stroke of an artist's brush, bending over to sweep the detritus into plastic bags. Dark hair fell over pale skin, and Solomon couldn't help but stare at him, the delicate line of the man's neck and the birdlike cage of his jaw.

xXx

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He doesn't remember Karl's real name.

Light falls in thick slants through the open window, and Solomon watches as Karl marvels at his new passport. He turns it over in his hands, then traces over the embossed letters with the tips of his fingers. Outside, schoolgirls are running. Laughing, the sound of it carrying through the air like bells.

"You're torturing him," Solomon says. "Amshel. Whatever your motives may be, you cannot continue to treat him this way. He is a chevalier," Solomon says, and Amshel snorts, amused.

"He is not our real brother," Amshel says. "He agreed to be our subject. Surely you realize how much his family has benefited," Amshel says.

"It isn't right," Solomon says. "Surely there are other ways to go about doing this-"

"What other ways?" Amshel says. "Tell me, Solomon: shall I ask James to take a turn? Or perhaps Nathan, when he's not busy preening himself in front of the mirror?"

Karl Fei-Ong. A name as good as any other. Solomon watches as Karl gives it one last look, then places it into the desk drawer.