The house smelled of age and loneliness. It was a sad house, the home of an old man who had lived beyond his time. It was a dark home; the velvet drapes hid what sunlight might have streamed through the huge pane windows seen from the long, winding drive. This was a physical thing, this sad solitude, accompanied as it was by a sensation of empty waiting, a held breath. Allura's senses reeled at the expectant end that radiated from the very walls, the agonizing wait for death that permeated the entire estate.

Inside, a soft gleam from an unseen light caused the rich furnishings to stand out in the dark, expensive antiques of old, deeply stained wood. The upholstery maintained its brilliant colors, the dark reds and blacks, deep forest greens, soothing royal blues and subtle earthen tones still the same color that they had been the day the cloth had been sewn together and slipped on as a covering. Allura let her hand trail along the smooth wood, the satin cloth, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpeting. It didn't surprise her to find such wealth in her subject; by all reports, he had a keen mind, a remarkable intellect. But, this man was more than a successful immigrant businessman. He was a survivor; one who lived through the second war and through the deaths of most of his family in the years that followed. Still, it saddened Allura: to have lived so much, and then be relegated to this large, empty house. It must make the silence all that more profound.

"Are you all right, Mademoiselle?" The handsome young man in somber, well-cut clothes, who had led her into the house, smiled in a vaguely unsure manner. His accent was pleasing, a gentle French lilt tinting his words, and Allura could feel her heart beating in response to his exotic accent. If she had had more time, perhaps she would have pursued this sensation of lust. But, there was business to attend to, and she was a professional first and foremost. Besides, an old man and a young boy as pretty as this young boy was--Well, the French were known to be little bit...different and she wasn't one to really pass judgment. Perhaps the old man was merely indulging in some hedonism while he still had the time.

"Yes, I'm all right. This is a beautiful house."

"Merci. I shall be sure to convey your compliments." Her young guide smiled as he stopped in front of pair of large oak doors. "He will be quite pleased."

The large doors swung gently open at his touch, and he bowed slightly, standing aside to allow Allura to enter. She inclined her head and passed through the foreboding portals.

It was brighter, this new room, with the thick drapes pulled back to let in the pale sunlight in a shallow beam that made the old wooden desk glow in dark accents. The walls were lined with thick books and small machines, silver picture frames and tiny lions made of jade; this was the seat of power, the inner sanctum of a man who could change the world with just one word. The owner of this subtle power stood with his back to the door, clad in a deep green jacket which accented the lithe form that old age had yet to steal away. He was not a tall man, and the shrinking that accompanies age made him seem smaller than he really was. However, he radiated a sense of inner peace, a feeling of unshakeable serenity, and Allura was loath to break that sensation, to disturb this old man whose grey curls brushed the collar of his coat.

"Papi, elle est la." The youth's voice was soft and respectful, tinged with fond love. Allura started at this, wondered if she would be forced to remember what little French she knew.

The old man turned, sunlight glinting on the wire frames of his glasses. He smiled at Allura, before glancing over her shoulder at the boy. "Merci, Remy. Tu peux aller maintenant. Je voudrais de l'intimité, si tu s'il te plait"

"Bien, Papi." The young boy bowed slightly, then backed out of the study, closing the doors behind him as he went.

The old man limped over to Allura, leaning heavily on an ebony cane. "Welcome, welcome." His accented voice was thick and sultry, calming and caressing and Allura found herself immediately on guard; experience had taught her not to trust a voice like this. He had the voice of every other old man who had promised her a story on the war, but instead spent the time gawking at her young flesh. He had the voice of those execs that lulled you to sleep while they bought your soul for a nickel and copped a feel just for the sake of philandering; the voice of men who calmly and rationally explained that it was in your best interest to fuck them.

"Thank you for having me, Monsieur Champillion." She tried to keep the hostile wariness from her voice. She needed this interview if she wanted to keep that grant.

"Ahh, it is my pleasure." The old man limped to his desk, sat down in the large leather chair that was pulled up behind it with a soft groan. "Please. Sit."

"Thank you, Sir." Allura carefully sat down in one of the chairs facing the old man, releasing an involuntary sigh of pleasure at the soft wealth of the chair. She leaned back, relishing the comfort. Better than those hard, wooden chairs in the library where she normally conducted her research.

"If you would, could you call me Pascha? This 'sir' business...it is not appropriate for what we are about to do. We will become too...intimate to use such formalities, soon."

"Of course, Si--Pascha." Allura pulled out her note pad and a pencil. She checked the background information that her contact had given her, ensuring that the old man would really give her the story she needed. "Thank you again for allowing me to come here."

"Ahh, ce n'est pas probleme. I am old. My grandson--Remy--he has no interest in hearing my stories." He smiled, hazel eyes suddenly gaining a boyish spark. "I have to pass on my stories before I die, non?"

"Yes, of course. Where would you like to begin?"

"With them." Pascha took a picture from his desk and turned it to face Allura. Five smiling faces looked back at her, young and handsome, in the flush of their youth. They had arranged themselves around a cart, with a tall, slender youth in priest-like garb and a sober expression perched on the lip, majestically overseeing his companions. Two other boys sat at his feet; one was Japanese and the other a fox-faced mischief-maker, their arms slung around each other's shoulders in happy camaraderie. A giant with an honest face loomed over them all, a small, laughing boy perched on his shoulders. "I am the small one. Ahh, we were handsome then."

"The one on his shoulders?" Allura gently touched the glass protecting this ancient picture, delicate finger singling out the small boy in with large, round glasses and innocent smile, perched atop the shoulders of a giant with the wide, friendly face. She felt the old maternal instinct rise, and reminded herself sharply not to fall into the trap of caring for those she interviewed. It was a story lived and done with, and she was only there to write it down. "How old were you?"

"In that picture? Seventeen. It was taken in France on the 5th day of April, 1943." Pascha sighed. "It has been so long since I spoke about my friends."

"Who are they?"

"The big man--the one upon whose shoulder's I sit--we called Hunk. He was an American mechanic. The boy in the cart is Sven. Those two in the center are Keith and Lance. Keith is the Japanese boy."

"What were their last names?"

Pascha laughed, soft and tinged with ancient sorrow. "I am sorry, but I can not tell you. Even though I know that I am the last living member of those whose lives I shall speak of, their secrecy must still be kept. I swore that not even the earth would make me yield the truth, and there must be certain...conventions still kept, though the reasons have long since become so much dust. And some of them, well, I never knew their real names. So I will give the aliases they gave themselves; and if you would be so kind as to humor an old man too set in his ways to change...?"

"Very well." Allura smiled graciously. "And what was your alias?"

"I was known as Pidge. Lance named me that, early on; he said I was the 'pigeon' of the group the easy mark because I was the youngest and the most innocent looking. He was the only one to know me as Pascha, the only one to know me before..." Pascha lapsed into dark silence, eyes on some distant memory. Allura sat quietly, patiently waiting for the old man to come back from where ever he was. At last, Pascha shook himself and sighed, blinking rapidly--though if it was to disguise his tears or just from disorientation, Allura couldn't tell. "I am sorry. My mind wanders sometime. So. On with the story." He paused again and gazed intently at Allura, captured her youthful blue orbs with his aged hazel. "I would like you to know that this is not my story. This is their story. But, I must set the stage for you first. This story begins in Paris, when I was fourteen years old, and it seemed as though Germany would conquer all of Europe. It is the January of 1941. France has been under the Vichy regime for seven months. Food is scarce, and the homeless are freezing to death. My parents are dead, and I have been on my own for nearly three months. The streets are filled with the hungry and the cold; scavengers are haunting the streets for whatever they can burn in their makeshift stoves. It is a bleak time for all."

*     *     *

France, January 1941


"Halt! Stop!" The shouts of the German soldiers were muffled in the foggy night, disembodied cries that the captive Parisians ignored. It was safer not to be involved. "Dieb! Thief! Stop!"

The boy they chased couldn't have been more than nineteen and even that was a generous estimate. He could have been some of the older soldier's son, and had they met under different circumstances perhaps the thin child could have been pitied and fed, taken home to the wife for a warm bath and bed. But this was Paris, and this was war so men who could have been his father, his uncle, even his older brother, hunted the boy instead. They chased him down the narrow streets of Paris, waving their guns and shouting mostly in German, but sometimes in broken French. All this for a loaf of bread and a bit of cheese that had already fallen from the boy's pocket and been trampled beneath the German's feet.

The boy scrambled at the slick cobblestones, breath a harsh rasping in his ears. His heart pounded in his throat, adrenaline and a strange excitement spurring his tired body to greater speeds. He was sweating heavily under the heavy leather jacket that he had stolen from a dead body, the blood of the dead man still a bright stain against the cracked leather. He longed to open up the jacket, let out the heat of his overworked body; but to do so would be to lose the loaf of bread that he was now risking his life for. So, instead, he suffered through the heat and the chill of the cooling drops that beaded his flesh and froze in the night's cold air. The salty liquid dripped from the strands of light auburn hair and into his pale brown eyes. He dodged and slipped, feet pounding in the wet puddles of half-melted slush. He fell to his knees, tripped up by one such puddle, the thin cotton of his pants soaking through almost immediately and freezing shortly after. He landed with a grunt, felt the rough stones scrape away the skin on his palms until raw pinkness showed through. The German soldiers put on an extra burst of speed, and the boy shoved himself upright, running on with sobbing breaths as the cold air burned his tired lungs.

"Halt!" One over enthusiastic soldier, not much older than his quarry, slipped his rifle from his shoulder, waved it menacingly into the air, fired off a quick round that ate at the stones behind the boy. Their prey let out a wet whimper, the first spark of fear he had felt all night, a sudden dampening of the familiar excitement felt when tempting death, before running even faster. He flashed in and out of the dim orange light from the street lamps, sometimes disappearing completely before reappearing again in another dully-glowing patch of fog.

"Thief, stop!" Another warning shot, another spray of bullets shattered the ground behind the fleeing boy.

"Merda. Merda, merda, merda, merda, MERDA!" The boy cursed loudly despite his lack of breath, speaking the word with great passion. His eyes flickered back and forth across the streets, looking for a good place to hide, anyplace to hide. A third round and this time he felt the sharp pain of a rock shard enter his leg. He cried out, stumbled, prayed to the God he stopped believing in; then a sort of numbness descended upon the wounded limb and he ran on. He could hear the soldiers speeding up behind him, hear them calling to each other in congratulation. Fear captured the boy, terror at the sudden realization that he wasn't invincible after all, that he could be shot without a thought by uncaring soldiers. His youthful mind conjured up fantasizes of what these soldiers would do to him, and he sobbed into the cold, uncaring night.

Yet even the cold wash of fear couldn't dampen his macabre excitement, his desire to dance on the edge of destruction that spurred his daredevil antics. The two emotions mixed within him to form into something that was almost sexual in nature, an erotic need that hardened his youthful manhood despite the chill of the night around him. He reveled in it even as he stumbled as far as his wounded leg would carry him, before ducking into a dark ally and crouching in the shadow of a door, praying that the soldiers would miss his huddled form.

"Pst!" The soft voice caught the boy's attention, and he turned to see a pale, child's face peering out at him from the dark. It was an innocent face, wide and open, a pale moon surrounded by light curly hair. "Come here! I can help you."

The boy stared at the floating face for a long moment, before pushing himself away from the wall and stumbling to his would-be savior.

"Get away," he hissed to the face. "Get away while you still can."

"No, no, I'm here to help. Here, here. Through here." The child that was attached to the face stepped aside to reveal a small square of deeper black, a dark hole in the side of the brick building that made up part of the ally. The child gestured impatiently for the boy to pass through the dark hole. "Go! Quickly. The soldiers, they are gaining."

The boy nodded and dropped to his feet. He crawled through the hole, skinny frame still almost too large for this chance at hope. He could feel the breath of the child, warm and wet and felt even through his slacks as the child followed closely behind him. Through the dark passage the two went, blind eyes desperately seeking light--any light. Anything would be welcome after this black emptiness, even the fires of hell.

Their entrance into the larger room came as a numbing shock. The boy stood in a daze, stumbling about in pain as the white light of a naked bulb pierced his dark-accustomed eyes. He fell against a plaster wall, blinking out tears of pain. He rubbed his eyes, squinted at the bouncing reflections of white light on white walls. Slowly, painfully, his sight returned, the barren room coming into focus; unfortunately, so did the child and the gun in his hand. The boy blinked hard, rubbed at his eyes again, tried not to believe it.

"Hand it over."

"What?"

"The bread. I saw you steal it from the Germans. Hand it over." The child gestured with his gun. The boy sighed. The excitement still pounded in his chest, pumped his heart full of powerful adrenaline, and turned his mind. He felt like tempting his fate once more, daring this child to kill him in cold blood for the bread he carried within his coat. The excitement pulled him, but that rational section of his brain, that small portion of himself that could possibly stem the heady pleasure that pulsed through his body, urged him to remember who he was--what he was. He had no time to tempt fate, no freedom to bring death down on him; he had a mission that couldn't be ignored, one that he couldn't fail. He didn't have the liberty to let the child kill him. So the boy schooled his face into an impassive mask, a nonchalance that was easy to feign now that the giddy delight of tempting death was dying down within his veins.

"Is that what this is about?" The boy opened his jacket and pulled out the round and slightly squashed loaf of bread. "Go ahead. Knock yourself out."

He tossed the loaf at the child. The child panicked as the loaf flew toward him. He dropped the gun to catch the loaf, sacrificing his advantage in the sight of food. The boy nonchalantly bent down and grabbed the pistol. He cocked it negligently and pointed it at the child. "Okay, kid. Now you hand it over."

The child looked at the boy with wide, frightened eyes before his face settled into what the boy supposed the child thought was a stoic expression. It looked more afraid than stoic, in the boy's cynical eyes, however.

"Faugh. Italian bastards." The child stood stiffly upright, eyes moving to a distant point on the wall. "Pascha Champillion. And that's all I'm going to say."

The boy stared at Pascha in momentary incredulity, before throwing back his head and laughing. "Kid, I don't know what you think I'm about to do, but killing you isn't one of 'em. Besides, you should never tell anyone your real name. That's your second mistake. The first was attacking a member of the Resistance." The boy uncocked the gun, still laughing. "Oh relax, kid. You're in no danger from me. Just...hand over the bread will you?"

"The Resistance? You're part of Free France?" Pascha shook his head. "No. I don't believe you. You're Italian!"

The boy laughed. "Kid, I was born a mile from the border. I am just as French as I am Italian. Now give me the fucking bread."

Pascha sighed and handed the boy his loaf. The boy smiled. "Thanks." He slid down the wall and tore into the loaf. Pascha approached cautiously, and cleared his throat. The boy looked up. "Yes?"

"What's in the bread? A secret message? Microfilm?"

The boy looked at Pascha oddly. "No. It's just bread. The letter is in my jacket."

"So, why were those German's chasing you? Why's that bread so important to them?"

The boy shrugged. "I suppose they were just as hungry as I was; I think they want their dinner too."

"All that fuss over a loaf of bread that didn't even carry anything?" Pascha shook his head in disgust. "I don't believe it."

"Well believe it. That's the truth." The boy took another bite. Pascha's stomach growled, and he bit his lip.

"So what are you--"

"Hold it." The boy looked up then, with a sigh, put down the loaf. He looked at Pascha, young eyes suddenly very old. "Hey, how old are you, kid?"

"Fourteen." Pascha straightened again. "But I'll be fifteen in June."

The boy nodded. "Bit young to be carrying a gun, aren't you?"

Pascha shrugged. "I need protection too." He looked at the boy with wide awe filled eyes. "So, you're really in the Resistance?"

"Yep. And I've got a rendezvous to maintain. Where're your parents, kid?"

"They're dead. The German's killed 'em." Pascha shrugged. "Have you met de Gaulle?"

"Nope. You got a place to stay?"

Pascha gestured. "This is it." He grinned. "Not too shabby for a kid, huh."

The boy looked around at the Spartan room, taking in the cracked walls, the boarded up door and the pile of rags in the corner. "Nope. Not bad at all. You hungry?" Pascha nodded. The boy handed him the loaf. "Here. Eat." Pascha stammered out his thanks before latching ravenously onto the bread. The boy laughed softly. "Man, you are hungry."

"Starving does that to a person," Pascha shot back.

"Yeah. I suppose it does." The boy sighed and stretched out his leg, cursing softly at the tear in his slacks and the blood that leaked out from the shallow wound. "Merda. Well, looks like my next stop is a hospital to steal me some clean bandages." He paused in his examination of his wound, feeling Pascha's eyes on him. "Yes?"

"Can. . .can I go with you?"

"You? Come with me?" The boy shook his head. "No way, kid. I can't have a child traveling with me! You'd slow me down."

"Please?" Pascha looked up at the boy with wide, wet eyes, begging for a chance to leave this furtive lifestyle. "Anything has to be better than this. Besides, I was born in Paris. I know this province like the back of my hand. I got contacts, too."

The boy regarded Pascha for a long time, eyes unreadable. Finally he sighed. "All right. You can come. I suppose I could use some help. I can't believe I'm doing this." He shook his head. "Well, I suppose we should get acquainted. You can call me Lance."

"Just Lance?"

"If you get captured, I'd rather not run the risk of being taken as well. Same thing with you. So. What should we call you?" Pascha shrugged. Lance eyed his new traveling companion, before suddenly smiling. "Pidge."

"What?"

"Pidge. It suits you well."

Pascha blinked. "I don't understand. How'd you come up with that name?"

Lance shrugged. "You're the pigeon, kid. The innocent, easy mark." He laughed. "Of course, we both know that you aren't innocent, but you look the part so you may as well be named it as well. That being said, let's get some sleep. We need to get an early start tomorrow."

"All right." The newly christened Pidge smiled. "Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep." He reached up and turned out the light.

chapter two

They left Paris in the dark of night, Lance following the steady light of the North Star. Their footprints left a long path behind them, silent testimony to their journey. The road stretched out long and white before them, an endless expanse of white nothingness, pristine and beautiful in the new snow of the night before. But neither boy was in any position to appreciate this pristine beauty; there were too many other things to capture their attention than the mere allure of white snow in grey light. They were too cold and too tired to appreciate nature's splendor, too hungry to gaze in rapt admiration of the sparse beauty, too fatigued in both mind and body to wonder at the daily miracle that was the new day. Pidge was unused to the strain of breaking through new snow and forging a path ever onward, and he struggled mightily, floundering in the light powder, breath coming in sharp gasps and forming white puffs in the cold air. Sweat poured off of him, adding to his discomfort as the small, salty streams froze to his already chilled skin. He wanted to call out to Lance who plodded along before him, beg his companion to slow down, to allow a small rest and perhaps see whether there was some bread still hidden beneath Lance's leather jacket. But to do so would admit that he was unsuited to this task, and that would be even worse than the cold he felt.

Lance heard his small companion's struggles, Pidge's harsh panting loud in the still air. He slowed down and turned to wait for the younger boy to catch up. "Let's stop for a bit. We'll have some lunch."

Pidge nodded and stopped, bending over and resting his hands on his knees, breath forming white clouds in the air. The sweat beaded on his forehead, stuck his chestnut curls to his skin. He breathed in the crisp air deeply, lungs burning and thin chest heaving. "Okay."

Lance nodded and scanned the horizon. "It looks like there's an abandoned barn not to far off, let's head there." He turned and started the long trek through the unbroken snow. Pidge sighed and slowly stood, wincing at the sudden stitch in his side. Lance paused and glanced back at Pidge. "Oh, and why don't you try walking in my footsteps? It'll be eas--" Lance halted at the suddenly determined expression on Pidge's face. "I mean it'll throw off the Germans. It'll be like you just disappeared. That way if I get captured, you can take the papers on to de Gaulle."

Pidge beamed, a flush of warm courage running through his body at the words. "Sure. Sure thing, Lance. I can do that."

Lance turned away and smiled. It was almost painfully easy to trick Pidge; he was still all too innocent. He wanted that innocence again. He wanted to feel that young again. He supposed, however, that he would just have to settle for feeling that innocent purity through Pidge. Maybe it was selfish; but it was what he wanted, and Lance had never been particularly adept at controlling his impulses. Besides, they could both use a break from the monotony of the grey-lit snow.

"So, what's your story, kid? What happened to your folks?" Lance's voice carried clearly through the air; a gentle questioning that invited a response but didn't demand one.

"My dad owned a bunch of print shops, and he made up some anti-Nazi propaganda. The Krauts didn't take to kindly to that. I was the only one to not be sent to a prison; I think that they killed my father and brothers. I don't know what happened to my mother and sister. Maybe they went to one of the Kraut camps." Pascha shrugged. "Ah well. C'est la vie, n'est pas? The living should be more concerned with themselves than the dead."

"Yeah. But how come the Germans didn't find you?"

"I was in the ally looking at some of my Dad's old, uh, pictures." Pidge grinned, panting out the words as they stopped before the rundown building. "I bet I'm the only person who can say pornography saved their life, huh?"

Lance laughed. "I dunno if that's something you should be proud of kid. Still, if your folks were rich, what the hell were you doing in Paris? Shouldn't you have started school?"

Pidge shrugged, though he knew that Lance couldn't see him. "I had a pretty bad cold towards the end of the summer. I'd just come back from a sanatorium in Bath. The monks at my school didn't want me infecting everyone else."

Lance nodded slowly and slid the decrepit barn doors open, leading Pidge into the warm barn. Gesturing with his head for the small boy to sit, he pulled out what was left of the stolen bread and ripped it in half, handing the torn chunk to Pidge. The younger boy nodded his thanks and tore into the frugal meal--but still more than he had eaten in a long while--and for a time there was only the sound of hungry boys eating. Pidge finished quickly, licked his lips to catch the last of the crumbs and looked questioningly at his older companion. Lance smiled and handed the young boy the last bit of his bread, standing as he did so and brushing off his hands.

"Ready to go?" Pidge nodded and Lance gestured for the young boy to follow him. They went outside and Lance picked up a handful of the white snow, sticking it in his mouth. "If you're thirsty, just suck on some snow."

They walked faster now, bodies infused with a new energy from their scant meal. For a while there was only silence and the sound of their heavy breaths. Then Pidge's voice piped up, clear and curious in the clean air, "So what's your story? Why're you headed to England?"

Lance grunted, shrugging his shoulders slightly. "I have no reason to want to be in Italy, and Petain is too much of Hitler's bitch to stay in the unoccupied zone. It'd be like living under that idiot Mussolini again."

"Why don't you want to stay in Italy?"

"Because."

"I'm just going to bug you until you tell me why, you realize."

"I know. I was a younger brother once too."

"Okay then. So you should know by now that I'm not going to shut up until you tell me something, just on the general principle of it all."

"Too bad. It's not something that you need to know. So be quiet and just keep walking, all right?"

Pidge snorted, but did as he was told, the brisk walk making it hard from him to spare the breath for questions even if he had wanted to ask them. They reached the road and struck out north, making better time on the hard packed throughway. The snow crunched beneath their feet, the thin layer of ice making it slippery. Pidge kept his eyes down, concentrating on not tripping on the ruts. His over-active mind began to play with the ruts, imagining what sort of things had made them. Perhaps it was a car, one of those new, expensive ones he had seen among the American ex-pats when he had been a child. Most likely, though, they were just from the local farmers' carts as they took their produce to market. But in the dead of winter, what produce could there be to send to the starving city? So, perhaps these marks were made by those who had fled occupied Paris--like Pidge and Lance were doing now.

"Pidge, this way." Pidge hadn't realized that Lance had strayed from the path until he called, gesturing impatiently for the younger boy. "Hurry up."

Sighing, the young boy slogged his way through the snow bank to Lance, chilled by his frozen sweat and suddenly angry at the world. What had he ever done to deserve this fate? Why should God punish him so? He stopped suddenly filled with a rage so great that he wanted to hit something, kill something.

"Move it! Do you want them to see you?" Lance growled in frustration and slogged back to Pidge, grabbing the young boy by his coat sleeve and hauling him down. "Are you so eager to join your father and brothers?"

"What?"

"Over there. Do you see those men?" Lance pointed and Pidge looked out across the white fields in confusion until, suddenly, he saw the five men. Three were obviously prisoners, arms bound behind their backs; two of the prisoners were as old as his father had been, in the middle of their lives, just hitting their stride; the other was just a boy, an adolescent, trembling and soft, still rounded around the edges where life had not yet had time to etch lines into his fresh skin. They were guarded by two men, who stood with gleaming guns resting against their legs, cigarettes held in negligently in their mouths.

Pidge wondered what they were doing here, what the waited for. He turned to Lance, mouth opening to ask a question, but the older boy cut him off with an abrupt wave of his hand and a stern look. "Watch," he whispered, nodding his head again at the men. "This is what happens to seditionists. Listen, you can here the shovels."

Pidge listened, hearing nothing at first and the anger that had fled, as he had been distracted returned, accompanied with the ache of sore muscles and the chill of melting snow that numbed his feet. And then he heard the soft sounds of a shovel and two more men appeared, climbing out of a hidden ditch. The soldiers nodded and something passed between the hands of these four men. The ditch-diggers shook hands with the soldiers and moved away, footsteps loud in the still morning. Then the two soldiers stood the three men in a line, and raised their guns. Pidge swallowed, and closed his eyes tight, covering his ears with his mittened hands, but the cloth was no match for the roar of the guns.

Pidge cried out in shock and fear, tears springing to his eyes. Lance clapped a hand across the younger's mouth, muffling the unbidden scream, pulling Pidge into his arms and holding him still though the boy struggled in mindless fear.

They huddled there for a long time; long enough for the ditch-diggers to fill the shallow grave, shovels scraping the frozen earth loudly; long enough for the soldiers to leave, as silent in their departure as they had been in their killing.

But when they once more resumed their journey, Pidge could still see the place where the ditch had been, and the spilled blood was bright against the white, white snow.

*     *     *

Pidge didn't talk to Lance for the rest of that day, stumbling along in a half-daze, an aura of confused shock surrounding him. Never before had he seen death so close, seen so clearly the war that raged around them. Though he had never known the men whose execution he witnessed, their deaths touched him deep within his soul, struck some strange chord that filled him with incomprehensible fear. Could that have been the fate of his father and brothers? Did they lie in an unmarked ditch, unmourned, unknown, just another set of bones to add their commingled dust to the dust of the world?

It was well into the night before Pidge finally awoke from his daze, starting into full consciousness with a shake of his head. He blinked blindly into the flickering fire, mesmerized by the dancing flames, trying to remember the rest of his day.

"You all right, kid?" The fire was reflected in Lance's worried eyes, and Pidge found that the flames danced just as high in the small, brown orbs.

"Where--where are we?" Pidge's throat was dry and his stomach hurt. He felt so drained.

"I don't know." Lance shrugged and crabbed around the fire until he was sitting next to Pidge and the younger boy couldn't see the dancing flames in Lance's eyes anymore. "Listen, I found a chicken and some eggs. You want to eat?"

"No."

"Look, Pidge, we couldn't have done anything about it. You know that, right?"

Pidge nodded his head slowly. "Yeah."

"Good." Lance put his hands out to the fire, surreptitiously observing his somber companion. "You sure you don't want something?"

"I'm sure." Pidge's stomach growled and the young boy winced, angry at his body's betrayal. Lance chuckled slightly and wordlessly handed Pidge a charred piece of chicken. The meat was cold and badly cooked, but it still tasted so good and was gone faster than Pidge liked.

Licking his fingers, sucking the last of marrow out of the bone, Pidge looked up at Lance, wordlessly asking for more food even though he felt like he betrayed some indefinable thing by his search for life. Lance smiled gently back, handed Pidge the rest of the charred chicken and pulled his jacket a little tighter about his thin frame.

"Don't worry, kid. You get used to it all in time."

Pidge nodded but said nothing, and somehow life seemed all that much worse at the thought that someday he would become accustomed to death.

*     *     *

"...I found my way into his arms that night; it was bitterly cold and if I hadn't, then both of us would have frozen, I'm sure. Although, I don't think that having another body in his arms was so foreign a feeling to Lance. When he woke, he started to say a name--he was dreadfully disappointed when he realized it was just me; I'm certain that he expected someone else."

"You, uh, slept with Lance? As in had sex?" Allura felt the blood rushing to her cheeks and cursed her pale complexion. "I'm just curious since I know that you were married and have three children."

"Well, to a young boy, sex is sex." Pascha smiled genially. "But no, we did not 'know' each other that night. He was in pain and I. . .well, I was afraid. I will admit, though, that there were other nights during our journey when we turned to each other to...'ease our youthful passions', if you like."

"You aren't...homosexual, are you?"

"Me? No. Lance was though." Pascha laughed. "He tried to hide it from the rest of us."

Allura looked down at her notes, than back up at Pascha. "Do you think the fact that he was homosexual was the reason for why he joined the Resistance?"

"No. There was another reason, one that I drew out of him slowly." Pascha sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Well. Should we continue?"

chapter three

England, March 1941

It was the beginning of March when the pair finally reached England's shores, ill and worn from the long trek by foot from Paris to the Channel. They were lighter by more than a few pounds, as well as a few ideals, but they were alive and in Pidge's eyes nothing else was important. By the time they made it to London, it was close to April and Pidge was beginning to wish that they had never left France. There was more despair in London alone than in all of France combined. What hope could be found in these bombed out husks, in these grim, frightened faces?

But Lance apparently saw something worthwhile in the broken buildings, and Lance was all that Pidge had left so he followed and kept quiet as they were shunted about by men and women who spoke their harsh, ugly English high above his head. Everything was noise and confusion and isolation; rubble and trash and fear; dark buildings that loomed over him with empty eyes. How he longed to hear his beautiful mother tongue once more! How he longed to walk the streets of his beloved Paris, stroll down the Champs Elysées with his family or go to the Riviera in the summer and watch the girls as they splashed in the crystal-blue water.

Summer and the Riviera seemed far away now, as he stood in the cold London wind that wailed quietly in the distance and whipped the tattered ends of Pidge's coat about his legs and cut through the layers of mismatched clothing to cut into his bones. He was always cold, now, would never be warm. The cold had settled into his bones, settled into his heart, and it numbed his hands and ears and nose and made him feel small and frail and alone. He could feel the cold even now, though he was inside one of those frighteningly empty buildings, seated in a hallway while he waited for Lance to finish speaking with General de Gaulle.

He could hear angry voices in the room beyond the thick door, and he was suddenly frightened. What was going to happen to them now? Would he be sent back to Paris, back to a life of scavenging and hiding, a life spent in the back alleys and cellars? His breath caught in his small chest and he suddenly loved this dreary, broken place more than he had ever loved his happy home. Anything was better than going back to that life, anything, even this hell.

Pidge slipped from his chair and pressed his ear against the door. He had to know what was going on.

"Ahem."

Pidge jumped back, a blush staining his cheeks. He whirled on the speaker, mouth ready to make his excuses, and the blush deepened. The man who stared back at him with dark eyes, mirroring eyes, wore the vestments a Catholic priest. His gaze already accusing to begin with took on an even harsher edge for not only did the man condemn his actions, but so did God and Pidge didn't think he could handle that.

Bad enough to be caught spying, but to be caught by a priest!

"Excuse me, Father," Pidge stammered, his words slurred in his shame. "I didn't. I mean. My friend, he's inside and--" Pidge trailed off as the priest's angry face took on an expression of confusion, the stern lines fading and allowing the striking beauty of the man to show through.

Of course! Pidge thought. He doesn't speak French.

Pidge smiled and crossed himself, putting on his most contrite expression. Well, if the priest couldn't understand him, then maybe this would be all that was needed to convince him that Pidge was repentant. And he was, he really was, but mostly about the fact that he had been caught. And maybe if he looked repentant enough the priest would stop staring at him with those dark, frightening eyes.

The door behind him opened, bathing Pidge in a blast of noise and light. He half-turned, already looking for Lance, then stopped as the older boy bumped into him.

"Move," Lance growled, voice low and angry and heavy with his accent. One rough hand gripped Pidge's shoulder a little too hard, pushed him away with a little too much force, and Pidge looked at his protector with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

Lance turned away from Pidge's gaze, too angry right now to care about the younger boy. Oh god, but he was angry. He could feel the rage building in his body, feel it in his trembling muscles. He knew the blood had drained from his face, that the anger had given him two bone white circles on his cheeks.

How dare he? How dare de Gaulle negate the months Lance had spent bringing this message to him, negate the dear price of life that this slip of paper had cost? Lance could feel the urge to hit someone, hurt someone, building in him.

"Lance." His name caused him to turn, and the English man who had stood so calmly in the corner as General de Gaulle destroyed his life touched his shoulder.

"What?"

"Calm down. Just because Charles is an idiot doesn't mean that there aren't others who can see your worth." The man's Italian was bad, but Lance knew his English was worse.

"What do you want?"

"You." Lance raised an eyebrow at that and the man hastened to clarify. "You would make a great field spy, if you had a little training. How would you like to work for me?"

Lance hmm'd and looked away from the man. It was a tempting offer, and he had no real ties to France to keep him from taking it.

"Why me?"

"Why not." The man's gaze was steady, confident and Lance knew that if he didn't accept this offer there were thousands others just like him who would.

"All right. I'll work for you."

"Good." The man nodded and looked beyond Lance to the young priest who had stood unnoticed in the corner. The young priest approached and he and the English man held a quick conversation, spoken softly and in a language Lance didn't understand.

"Qu'est-ce qui ce passé ?" Pidge's voice sounded small and alone to Lance, and he knew that he should be telling the younger boy what had happened. But instead he waved the boy away.

The English man turned back, and he wore a grim smile that looked out of place beneath his floppy moustache. "Welcome, Lance. You can call me Coran. This," and here the young priest stepped forward, face impassive "will be your partner--"

"Sven." The priest spoke his name in English with a thick Swedish accent, and smiled a cold, empty smile. "Nice to meet you."

*     *     *

"So Sven was Swedish."

"No, actually, he was German. A German Jew, in fact. His father had been a fairly prominent doctor."

"But you said he had a Swedish accent."

"He did."

"Then." Allura paused, frowned. "Why?"

Pascha stopped and sat down old granite bench. The riot of summer was fading from his garden, turning now to the steady golden ripeness of fall. Allura sat beside him, and the sunshine turned her hair into a halo.

"What do you think of my garden?" Pascha said instead of continuing his tale.

Allura made a noise in the back of her throat and took a cursory look at her surroundings. The sun had burned the morning's chill away and the day had been too nice to spend indoors, so Pascha had led Allura through the winding paths of his fragrant garden as he had talked. Allura couldn't really say that she had been paying much attention to the flowers.

"Very nice. But, please, Pascha, tell me why Sven had a Swedish accent."

"It was so he could escape."

"Mmm." Allura chewed on a lock of hair, her eyes pensive. "From who? Or what?"

"From Dachau, and his homeland. From himself, I imagine." Pascha tilted his head back and looked into the past. "Did I tell you that he was living with Coran?"

Allura shook her head.

"Coran had been Sven's patron before the war--Sven was schooled in England, along with his younger sister. He was studying to be actor. I believe Coran was his host during those years."

"When did he go to Dachau? After Kristallnacht?"

"No. He was sent to Dachau before that. I think it was 1934. Maybe 1935."

"For being a Jew?"

"For being a Jew and being a subversive. He was arrested for leading a communist rally."

"When did he escape?"

"Early in 1939." Pascha laughed, suddenly, startling Allura. "It was Coran's doing, mostly. He managed to send a plant in a group of Catholic priests from Sweden. The group visited Dachau with a dummy priest--a mock-up whom they claimed was sick. They left two days later with Sven disguised as the miraculously healed priest. He learned Swedish in less than a week, acted as the group's translator, which is where the accent comes from. They made their way up through Germany and back to Sweden. Sven got on a boat under an assumed name--Sven Hendrickson--and headed to England where Coran took him in." Pascha shook his head. "That was what happened every day in those times: little miracles of human perseverance, of human kindness. Every time I think the human race is doomed, I remember Coran and the priests who risked their lives for Sven. I remember my friends."

"Mmm."

They sat for a moment, Pascha brooding and Allura letting him brood. She chewed on her bottom lip, and welcomed the warmth of the sun. At last Pascha shook himself out of his reverie, blinked his old eyes against the sun.

"Ready to continue?" Allura asked.

"Yes." Pascha rubbed his knee, an idle, subconscious gesture.

"Who was Coran?"

"Coran. Coran was the head of a spy network."

"Like the SOE?"

"Yes, somewhat. Coran was responsible for training saboteurs, for taking angry children who wanted to lash out at life and turning them into useful tools. It was dangerous work, very dangerous since we had to actually interact with the Germans. Unfortunately, Coran's project was an experimental one. He never had much funding, so he didn't have too many spies. In fact, at the project's height, he had four saboteurs: Lance, Sven, myself and Hunk."

"What was it called?"

"Arus." The old man smiled fondly. "He was a funny man, Coran. He never explained why he gave it that name. He was a funny man, but a good one. He took us in, Lance and I, he gave me an education, he gave us a home. He was a good man. Very smart. He gave us, tried to give us at least, something to fight for, to stay alive for. He knew that the man who fought for his home, for his life, who had something to lose, was the most dangerous man in the world. With Sven, he didn't have to do much. Sven had gotten married in June of 1939, to the girl he had left behind when he had gone back to Germany four or five years before. They were expecting their first child. And Coran gave me a home. He adopted me, gave me a family to replace the one I lost. Hunk had a girl waiting for him back in the States." Pascha sighed. "Lance was his only failure. Nothing Coran could give would be something Lance would live for."

*     *     *

Scotland, October 1941

"Over there." Sven's voice was wet in Lance's ear, his English as heavily accented now, six months after their first meeting, as it had been that cold spring day. He lay almost on top of Lance, his heavy body pushing Lance's slighter form into the wet soil. He was long and muscled and handsome, and Lance could barely keep a rein on his hormones. The combination of a hot guy and adrenaline flowing through his veins was almost irresistible. "Do you think you can do this?"

Lance nodded mind suddenly focused. He looked across the field that gleamed in the light of the crisp October afternoon, assessing the potential cover. There wasn't much, but it would have to do.

"Good." Sven rolled away and slid down the hill. He grabbed the gun and the pack and then wiggled his way back up. The pack he gave to Lance, the gun he primed, and then rolled onto his stomach, inching his way back up the hill until he could peer over the top. "Ready?"

Lance nodded again, and he felt his stomach clench in heady anticipation. He slung the pack over his shoulder, spent a few seconds positioning it so that it lay flat against his stomach. He picked up a handful of soil, rubbed it between his hands to stop the sweating.

"On three?" he whispered, proud of the way his English sounded, of how well he was learning the language.

Sven nodded, and began the count. As he mouthed three, Lance scrambled over the top of the hill and took off across the empty field, bent almost in two. The sharp rattle of a Tommy gun burst high above his head, and if Lance had the breath, he would have sworn. Behind him, he could hear Sven's sharp return salvo.

Duck and weave. Duck and weave. Using the sparse cover, Lance scuttled to the dubious safety of the other side. Where, where, where. There. He slid behind the designated hillock and primed the gun he found there. A shrill whistle later, and the pounding report of Sven's gun cut off abruptly. A dead silence fell over the staging area and Lance could hear the pounding of his heart as it fluttered in his chest.

Come on, Sven. Come on. Where are you?

A sudden movement caught his eyes, and then Sven was running across the field and the strafing fire was starting again, only this time Lance could see where it was coming from. Sighting down the barrel of his own machine gun, Lance let loose with a teeth-rattling strafe of his own. The gunfire cut off, and then the bullets were aimed his way. Lance ducked down low, waited for the attack to finish before popping up himself and slinging off a return. Sven scrambled into the makeshift shelter beside him, panting and grinning, a dark light in his dark eyes.

"One last volley and then get the fuck out of here," Sven whispered. Lance swallowed and nodded, and in the next loud strafe, he and Sven faded away into the forest. They walked silently together, barely breathing. The quick, quiet assuredness with which they moved over the forest floor had taken long hours of painful, diligent practice to achieve, but it had been worth it. The wind made more noise than they.

Coran was waiting for them at the old stone wall, a broad smile on his face. "Good job boys. You're getting better."

"But of course," Lance replied, still high on the adrenaline. He looked over at his companion, flashed the older boy a quick, congratulatory smile. "Could we do anything less?"

"Don't get cocky, Lance," Coran said. "You're good when you're facing blanks, but how will you react when you're faced with the Germans and real guns?"

Lance shrugged." I'll be fine. I've faced them before."

"How much longer until we get sent out into the field?" Sven had returned to his normal, stoic demeanor and Lance sighed. He liked Sven better when the other acted like he actually had some life in him.

"Soon. Soon. You still have some rough edges we need to work on." Coran looked at the practice field. "Go collect the equipment boys. We're done for the day."

*     *     *

Coran listened to Lance and Pidge wash up in the kitchen and he felt a stab of homesickness in his heart for his family. Where he home with them right now in their little house in London, he would be sitting in his favorite arm chair and smoking his favorite pipe while Emily and Anne washed up after dinner. Their conversation would float through the open door into his ears. Their laughter, a counter point to the clinking of the dishes, would draw him out of his chair and into the kitchen where he would be pressed into service. Instead, he was here in this four-room hut with boys who still dreamed of glory and honor. His wife was leagues away, living with their son and his new family in Sussex; their daughter was working in a munitions factory, tempting death every day.

Were he not so adamantly against self-pity, he might let out a little sigh now.

"Coran." Sven sat down beside the older man. In the weak light of their lamp, he looked older than his twenty-four years the serious lines of his face deeply etched in shadow. The dye in his hair was fading and the grey was beginning to peek through once more.

"Yes?"

"We should take Pidge."

Coran sighed. He knew that the younger man would broach this subject, had been thinking the same thing for the past three months. But the boy was so young! He didn't look his fifteen years he didn't look capable of living the life of a spy though Coran knew, logically, that Pidge was as able as the rest.

But how could he put the child he had grown to love like one of his own in such danger?

"No."

"Coran, he's the only native among us. I can't speak French, and Lance sounds like an Italian. We'd be caught and killed before we could do any good. Besides, Lance doesn't know the North. If you were sending us into Germany or Poland, or even Italy, I wouldn't even suggest this, but we need Pidge."

"He's so young, Sven." Coran could see into the kitchen, see where Pidge and Lance flicked soapy water at each other and chattered easily in French. He should stop that, he knew, he should make them speak only English, but he couldn't rob them of the last comfort they had. "He looks like a child."

"I know." Sven followed Coran's gaze, his face still impassive. "He's the same age as my brother, looks as old as the baby was the last time I saw her. But if you didn't believe, on some level, that he was capable you never would have brought him here."

"I know." Coran couldn't turn away, couldn't stop wondering at the fact that these boys were playing. These boys, who were learning how to kill, learning how to hurt, how to destroy, how to hate men they had never met. "Talk to Lance," he said, suddenly. "Probe him. Who is he? Who was he? Why is he here? He said nothing about how he came to be in possession of that missive when he had his interview with de Gaulle."

Sven nodded, a movement that was heard instead of seen. "And Pidge?"

"I'll think on him."

"We still need a cover, Coran."

"I know." Coran stroked his moustache and wished for his pipe. Pidge and Lance had finished in the kitchen and had wandered out into the main room now. Lance threw himself down into a chair, one leg across the armrest and thudding restlessly against the base, his smile easy and open but his eyes unreadable. Pidge sat at his feet and tried to imitate the older boy's posture.

"What?" Lance said.

"Your cover. We need to think of a way for you boys to move safely around France."

"What about an traveling entertainer's troupe?" Pidge leaned back on his wrists, stretching his sore tendons. The lamplight reflected off of his glasses, hiding his eyes behind the glare. "Lance can juggle, and Sven. Well, Sven can be his manager, I suppose. And the Germans need distraction just as much as the rest of us."

"It might work." Coran shot a sideways glance at Sven. Should he probe the boy's still sore wound now?

"I can act," Sven volunteered instead, his voice steady and free of any emotion. It surprised Coran that he could speak so calmly about what he had lost. "I can teach Lance enough that we could do a comedy bit."

"Mmm." Coran stretched. "Well. It's late. We'll think on this tomorrow."

*     *     *

Hawaii, November 1941

Tomorrow. Hunk glared into the bottom of his glass. Tomorrow she says.

He threw back the last of the burning whisky and tapped his now empty glass against the bar, signaling to the bartender. He wasn't drunk yet, not by a long shot.

It's always fucking tomorrow. I swear, if I didn't love her... Hunk sighed, slugged back another draught of spirits. He was going to pay for this tomorrow, he knew, and he grinned in sudden, sardonic mocking. More tomorrows.

Another sigh and few more glasses later and Hunk was finally beginning to feel less like a surly bear and more like a drunken surly bear. He spun on his seat, turning to rest his elbows on the scarred wood of the bar. The large bay windows looked out over Waikiki and in the setting sun the world blushed like a new bride. The sight soured Hunk's already foul temper and he wondered how much trouble the higher ups would give him if he started a drunken brawl. Not like they could really give him shit--not a decorated soldier like himself, not the man who, if he desired, could have been an captain by now. Not the star of the Navy.

Fuck her. I should have stayed in DC.

The door to the Cannon Club opened and a trio of soldiers walked in, laughing and pushing each other's shoulders. They were pink from the sun and as they passed, Hunk smelled the familiar scent of sweat and salt and sea. Hunk cast a practiced eye over them, recognizing Ensign Thorpe from his command. And where Thorpe went, others followed. Hunk knew that a gaggle of the young officer's cronies would soon be invading the stately sedate world of the officer's club and he wondered, briefly, if perhaps he should leave now before his men saw him getting drunk over a girl.

Nah. Fuck 'em too.

"Lieutenant," Thorpe said, nodding his head in an informal salute. His voice grated over Hunk's already strained nerves.

"Ensign," Hunk said back, though he really wanted to make a disparaging comment about the boy's ancestry. He knew what the handsome, golden, arrogant boy called him in the darkness of the barracks. If he was any judge of character, Thorpe was going to be drinking heavily tonight. Perhaps a very early roll call would be in order.

Thorpe and his followers moved further into the bar and Hunk sighed. The youth's appearance had soured his lovely funk, for Hunk remembered the days when he'd been as callous and arrogant and cocksure as Thorpe. He still was, if Charlotte was to be believed. But he didn't want to think about Charlotte right now, and her father and the fact that Hunk had come out here for nothing.

It was time to leave. Maybe he'd open up that bottle of Vodka he'd stashed away in his freezer and get drunk away from the crowds and arrogant, cocky boys who were just spoiling for a fight. Grabbing his hat from the counter, Hunk pushed himself up and almost fell as the floor moved away from him. He clutched the bar and waited out the stars that exploded in his eyes.

Well. Looks like I'm drunker than I thought. I should probably get a cab.

Using his wide shoulders like battering rams, scattering the youthful men and their easily impressed dates, Hunk made his way outside into the damp Hawaiian night. He could smell the sea on the trade winds, and the sharp brush of salt cleared his head a little. The stars were bright above him, the night was warm, and Hunk was beginning to think that maybe he should call Charlotte when he got home, when the girl approached him.

"Excuse me, are you Lieutenant Commander Kelly? Of the Arizona?"

Hunk eyed the girl, who small and light and Asian. There was a plumeria blossom in her hair and a red glow to her cheeks. "Yeah," he said. "I'm him."

"I have a message for you."

"Mmm," Hunk grunted. "Well. What is it?"

"Not here." The girl looked about with wide, dark eyes. "There are too many people."

"Hmm." Hunk felt another ounce of rather expensive whisky evaporate out of his blood stream and he sighed. "Very well. Let's walk."

He led the way down Monsarat Avenue, toward Waikiki and a taxi. The girl was silent shadow that flitted behind his lumbering, stomping, steps, and Hunk wondered if he was perhaps being led into a trap.

"Well?" he barked out after a moment. "Who's this message from?"

"Not yet," the girl said, then "this way."

They had reached the park, now, and the girl struck out across the dark lawn. Hunk frowned but followed her. This was stupid and foolhardy, for in the dark night the park was the perfect place to waylay a drunken officer and rob him blind. He was in no shape to defend himself, barely able to walk, and was probably walking right into a trap because lord knows Hunk had pissed off more people than he could possibly remember, and some of them probably hated him enough to kill him. If it wasn't a death trap, then Hunk was sure to wake tomorrow lighter by a nearly empty wallet and with a lump on the head to add to the pain of his hangover. That was really the most likely outcome, but if it was so then how had the girl known his name?

"Hey!" he called. "Where are we going?"

"Almost there." The girl disappeared behind the wide girth of a tree and Hunk followed, knowing his own stupidity as he did so. Hunk peered in the dark gloom beneath the tree's spreading canopy, searching for the girl.

Great.

"Hello Hunk." A hand touched his arm, and Hunk spun.

That voice...

"Commander Halsey?" Hunk blinked in stupefied recognition. "What are you--"

"It's not important right now." Halsey smiled grimly. "I have a proposition that I think you'll like."

"Oh?"

"Yes." The commander took Hunk's arm, led him out from beneath the tree. "You see, I know a man in England."

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