A note from the author:

The Hetalia characters and their personifications belong to Hidekaz Himaruya 日丸屋 秀和

Rated for harsh language, Nazism, violence, death.

-Gilbert Beilschmidt-

"Number?" the Prussian asked rotely.

"154908," the response came. He wrote it down and pointed left, signaling for the next person.

"Number?" he asked again.

"159821."

"Number?"

"Héderváry Elizabeta."

It was a female's voice, doubtlessly a Hungarian, as like orientals the Hungarians placed their family names first. Gilbert looked up from his clipboard, clacking his pen irritably a single time on its hard wooden edge.

"I asked for your number, girl, not your name. You would do best to do as I command."

The fierce-eyed man cut off his sentence as he looked to appraise the girl standing in line before him. Her own ferocity met him, his surprise quenching the heat in his glare if only for a moment. Her uniform lacked the yellow triangle of the Jews, but instead produced the U of Hungary, and a notorious red triangle. The mark of notoriety seemed out of place on such a small looking woman. Her country is allies with Germany. She's no Jew, unless she's a political, a communist or criminal, what the hell is she doing here?

He narrowed his eyes distastefully.

"Arm," he instructed.

'Elizabeta' did so from where she stood a few paces in front of him. The number 152070 was tattooed on the pale underside of her forearm. She stared at the SS defiantly, lifting up her chin, exposing her most vulnerable area as if daring him to pull out a weapon.

"Go," he dismissed her after scrawling her number down on the sheet, trying his best to ignore her obvious challenge. His right arm felt the comfortingly familiar tug towards the strap of the rifle on his back. But his supervisor was watching, not that the jerk would mind, but shooting someone at the front of the line creates panic, and makes the task more difficult. "Next."

Gilbert succeeded in holding the façade of one who did not care, but he kept careful note of the barrack number's area the Hungarian would be sleeping at that he had marked down on his page. It was in Birkenau, a few kilometers away, in the female section of the second camp's complex. He would not let this curious girl's insult escape from him.

XXXX

"A long week, done." It was his brother Ludwig who spoke.

"Right." Gilbert answered. He took a long drag from the stein, gray clay rather than glass, and observed the foamy haze of bubbles on the inside settle from white to amber.

The two German brothers sat at a bar, the German officer's club, actually, as Ludwig had insisted, although Gilbert personally preferred the cabarets. The two were probably each on their fifth or sixth beers after receiving their leave from Auschwitz earlier that afternoon. Not that they had paid for half of it: the pair were in their SS Nazi uniforms. Between all of the civilian Polish girls fawning over them and the favor of the bartender Gilbert expected they could get completely smashed before the end of the night without spending a mark each. The people here outside the exclusion zone were sympathetic to the Nazis, and hated Jews. Or at least pretended they were.

"Which of the girls do you want to take back to the rooms tonight, Gil?" Ludwig asked in a rare moment of lightheartedness. Ludwig was always in such a nicer mood when he wasn't sober. He would probably shoot someone by tomorrow.

"Not in the mood tonight, Lud. Take the lot of these whores to yourself this time around."

Ludwig looked at him oddly. "What's gotten into you."

"Just tired."

Gilbert had been extra nice to his younger brother lately for landing him the job at Auschwitz. It paid similarly to their previous frontline waffen-SS work, and here he was much less likely to be killed. The SS lacked the honor of the Luftwaffe, which of course only meant that the chances of a serviceman being killed in under a month were minimal, but most people's perceptions of honor were distorted anyway. Honor was the strength to sacrifice yourself and others to achieve something higher; which was what they did. Breaking off a few fingers every once in a while was merely an added perk. Ludwig served the perfect model for the Nazi party. Genetically and mentally. He graduated Gymnasium with top marks, didn't scoff at his superiors like Gilbert and always followed orders with precision and even enthusiasm. The younger had quickly gained favor with his superiors and risen through the ranks; spreading his benevolent -yet intimidating- influence to land his imperfect brother a good job.

Ludwig noticed his brother's silence and smiled knowingly. "I revise my statement. Who has gotten in to you?" the younger man nudged him with his elbow. "I know you well enough. I bet it's a woman."

"How did you know?"

"Well, if it was a boy I'd have to turn you in myself!" Ludwig chuckled, landing his hand down on the counter and accepting another beer from the bartender.

Gilbert was usually secretive with his more subtle emotions, but the heavy lagers had loosened his tongue.

"I saw a strange girl at the camp today." Gilbert spoke coolly.

Ludwig made no attempt to hide his confusion. But he was calm, for certainly Gilbert did not mean...

"A Gentile," he clarified. "She dared me to kill her. But I didn't, she was still quite beautiful. There are so few beautiful women here."

"You're fawning after some piece of walking-dead criminal trash you found at the camps," Ludwig scoffed. "You'd be better off with a blonde Polish whore."

"I can't like her," Gilbert snapped. Revolting. "I just don't want to play Casanova with bar whores tonight."

Upon hearing this, Ludwig's lips pressed into a firm line. He thought something, a curious glint in his cerulean eyes beyond his years. But whatever it was he wouldn't let Gilbert decipher it. The younger brother nodded apologetically.

"What do you say we finish up here," Ludwig offered, in his form of an armistice.

The elder nodded blankly, his tone sounding out of place after his previous outburst. He took a long draw to finish his beer. But the good thing about Ludwig was that he was quick to move on. "Yes, that sounds good. But can I ask you a favor?" Gilbert voiced.

Ludwig's brows rose approvingly.

"Can your charms to transfer me to oversee in the women's section? In the Southwestern part of Birkenau?" he asked.

XXXX

Gilbert and Ludwig awoke at the SS quarters early several mornings later. Gilbert was well aware of his brother's high up position in the organization and could pull a few strings. Ludwig didn't care much exactly where he worked, as long as he knew what to do and could do it his way, so he went with his brother. To keep an eye on the arrogant albino from scuffing the family name with his antics, more likely.

"How do I look, Lud?"

Gilbert stood in front of the tall mirror in full uniform. He thought he was a handsome one. The black of his SS uniform was so dark that the fabric almost held a blueish sheen. The collar was long and crisp against his pale throat, adorned with an iron cross on the knot of the tie, which disappeared neatly into his collar. The vividly-colored military decorations on his chest caught the light. The red and white of his armband matched his eyes and face. But he felt the burning heat of something he had slipped into his coat a few minutes before close on his chest before arriving at the railway in to camp. Gilbert studied his cap for a moment; a small metal eagle was on the top clutching a swastika. Beneath that was a Deadhead -a Totenkopf- the pirate esque skull and crossbones that adorned every SS hat. Gil found the skull a bit melodramatic, he liked the eagle better. He had always held a fondness for eagles.

But Ludwig just yawned. "The same you do every day for work?"

-Elizabeta Héderváry-

Elizabeta realized she was lucky enough to be assigned work that wasn't too laborious. The last few days she and most of her block were sewing little Nazi flags together, each only about a dozen centimeters long. Whenever the Kapos weren't looking she and her acquaintances would purposefully sew the tiny swastikas on backwards, or at some awkward angle, and toss it into the finished bin. It was their bit of entertainment that kept the Hungarians going on through the day.

Most of the veteran prisoners warned her and her blockmates against this, and then distanced themselves into a position where they wouldn't have to even see it. They had seen people shot on the spot when caught, and the people next to them too. But Eliza realized early on that it was this ever-present hatred that kept her from capitulating. It kept that dull blackness from her eyes. She didn't want to end up shattered of mind like some of the broken prisoners, only a week or two down the line from her, who would sell them out for a roll of stale bread. Here there wasn't even real bread; half of the flour was thinned with sawdust. Were they so worthless that the damned Nazis wouldn't even give them real food? She wasn't a cow, she couldn't eat such high concentrations of cellulose and expect to work such long hours.

Elizabeta knew, however, that no matter what she did to keep her mind in good condition, her body would break down even faster. And in a few weeks she might just end up selling her soul to appease her hunger anyway.

But now, for the moment, she was free. As free as one could get in Birkenau. It was a Sunday, after lunch, and due to some mistake some poor unfortunate soul had made she was left milling around with a few dozen other prisoners for twenty minutes in the courtyard. She decided to stretch her legs and found herself looking between the buildings outside. The sun streamed down, but the place was anything but beautiful. Not a single blade of green was within a hundred meters of where she stood. Just gray barbwire, brown huts, and gray earth. If she could call it that. For she knew, they all knew, the gray matter of the ground was not earth.

"Elizabeta Héderváry."

The sudden High German sent chills down her spine. She looked around. She was behind the wall of a building in the shadows, not in the line of sight of anyone.

"Good to see you're still alive with that attitude problem of yours. But you invite bad company when you are alone."

More German. A nasty, throaty, barbaric tongue of which Elizabeta possessed no desire to hear. Whoever it was must have been arrogant to assume that she understood him so well, though the SS would speak no other language to a prisoner, even if they could. When Eliza turned to face the voice she was met with the white hair and hard red eyes of a demon. A very pale demon. He wore the standard deep black SS uniform. A rifle was strapped over his back, a pistol on his hip, a riding crop, and a long black dagger glinted in its sheath on the other. He flashed her a smile that would make a shark run for cover. The female returned his stare evenly, her chin lowered slightly, knowing in the fact the he had used no name rather than 'Prisoner number 152070' that this was not a formal affair. She hid her fear and met the stranger's gaze as evenly as she dared.

"What do you want?" She added on a 'sir' a half second later. It was late, but perhaps enough to save her punishment. She had nothing but disdain for any German soldier.

"Don't be so rash, I only meant to ask you a personal question," the guard purred. His voice was the low croon of a snake. The words were layered with smooth honey, but Elizabeta was not deceived by its sweetness. She pressed her lips together and stared up into his eyes to prevent herself from spitting on his boots. She took a step back. She valued her life just slightly enough to give him an excuse other than mere rudeness to kill her outright.

"Your German is good," the guard added.

"A personal question, you certainly have a file on me. Give me a reason why I should answer it." she returned.

The guard's arms strayed toward the crop on his belt with a smile, and chuckled upon noticing Eliza's subsequent suppressed grimace. Much to his apparent amusement, instead of continuing towards the crop, he made a show of reaching his hand inside the lapel of his black coat. "Worry not, girl. I have a present for you."

He pulled out a still warm fist-sized loaf of bread and displayed it to her. "Just one little question."

Elizabeta raised an eyebrow. "Deal. What do you want to know?"

"All you have to do is tell me why you are here."

-Gilbert Beilschmidt-

He let the question hang out in the air for added suspense, dangling the bread out in front of the Hungarian's nose. She restrained herself from snatching it outright, but the look of wanting in her verdant eyes was unmistakable. Gilbert grinned.

Elizabeta relaxed. He could tell she was half expecting to have to make up some fake information involving some non-existent plot to explode the showering quarters. "You've just got to give me immunity, and the bread."

"A man of my word I am. Continue as you like." Gilbert ordered.

"I was sent here as a political dissident." she said. "Supposedly I worked in the Budapest Underground."

The Prussian raised an eyebrow. His three marks for real bread was worth more than a 'supposedly.'

"I acted up against your stupid fascism a bit too loud for the taste of Hungary. Passing around underground newspapers and such. After a few years it caught up with me. I've heard about what you little Hitler Youth boys do in Germany; turning in their own family members who question the Nazi party to their scoutmasters and teachers just to move up in the ranks. It's ridiculous, how weak you are. It's like you can't think for yourselves, following that mustached madman off a cliff like a bunch of startled lemmings. But here I am turned in by a Hungarian, in the slaughterhouse anyway. Staring down the pistol of some red eyed devil whose name I don't even know. You Nazis turned on your own people with rifles raised…"

The Hungarian paused, looking up at him with an unreadable expression.

"Just like mine did."

Gilbert studied her in silence for a moment, debating as to whether this story was true or if she said it just to attempt to defy him. It would explain why she was still in good health, had she been living in a Jewish ghetto for weeks before being transported here she would weigh ten kilos less than she was right now. And not half as defiant. That would have been beaten out of her.

"Take the bread," the Prussian said gruffly, tossing it, which she caught clumsily against her chest.

She restrained herself from showing weakness from tearing up the small morsel right then and there. She looked at him stonily. "If you have any other 'questions,' ask. I'll be happy to answer anything else you want to know.… After a trip to the baker, of course."