I don't own DGray-man… blah blah insert copyright stuff here.
Let's just read some fan fiction.

It's always cold in Russia, no matter what time of the year.

It was silent on Moscow's streets, an odd event for Russia – especially in the capital. Usually, a cold evening was an excuse to fill the local taverns and drink alcohol to their hearts content. But these nights always had a common factor. Eventually, silence would spread over the city like a dull coloured blanket, slowly – but eventual.

It was near midnight, and the last dregs of society where drifting back into their homes to spend the night... alone or otherwise. It made it easy then, for a lone man to slip into the backdoor of The Welcome Stranger, a place where individuals could meet others, who rarely met the requirements for 'law-abiding' citizens.

This lone man, Antov as he told the merchants, was of average height for a Russian male, slim and muscular. He dressed himself in a black, a trait that men of his calibre seemed to be attracted too. His clothing wasn't particularly expensive, nor did it discriminate him to poverty. He wore a black cloth hood, which matched his dark cotton gloves. Around his hip was strapped a knife, sheathed in a black leather pouch he had stolen from a market vendor that morning – other than the handkerchief in his pocket that concealed his set of lock picks, it was his only piece of equipment. He wasn't the best equipped thief, but he didn't need to be. Not for this kind of work.

This man wasn't particularly old, nor was he particularly fond of the factories... which probably explained his career choice. This man was not a man who forged for a living, rather, stole his living. He was a thief, a man dedicated to living in the shadows. At least, that was his philosophy. He wasn't the master thief he so often wished he was, especially when he had to explain to the local store holder why he was holding half of the monthly takings.

But he was working on his skills; after all, he did have two children and a wife to somehow feed. He had gone from a simple, petty pickpocket – to someone with a greater degree of class. But as the size of his 'hits' increased, so did the punishment he tempted. An unpleasant thought at the best of times – one 'stuff up' would mean his jailing, and the starvation of his family. He had considered more stable employment, an idea which his wife loved but he still preferred a few hours on a cold, Russian night – to twelve hours labour in a smog ridden factory. It just wasn't the life he wanted.

Not to mention the earnings. One nights work could reward him and his family with the equivalent of a month's wages in the factories, apparently some travellers paid quite well for Russian trinkets.

The Welcome Stranger was a haven for illegal merchants, immigrants and foreign travellers. Most didn't give names, purely a business hub for the shady stranger. The owners knew the colourful background that their establishment produced, but they didn't care. Anyone's money was as good as anyone else's.

But today, one man slept in the Welcome Stranger who was not a poor traveller, a black market vendor or immigrant but a politician. A rich one, who paid for his room from a bag filled with gold coins. A mistake made only by the naive and inexperienced, and if a thief's instincts where anything to trust, this politician fitted both categories.

Antov knew he was lucky to find such an easy target, and if it wasn't for his fence he doubted he would've at all. That was the profession of a fence after all, information collectors – who then spread their information out to the thieves.

This fence said he was a Frenchman, or so he told his clients. More often than not however, Antov caught him talking in both deep British accents. Antov didn't mind however, he could understand this man's secrecy. It came with the territory.

This fence was perfect for Antov - almost fences charged for their information, a tenet they lived by. But not this man, all he asked in return was perfect secrecy, the promise of security and that the thief never use a different fence, being in the upmost loyal.

Which suited this thief fine, for a thief Antov was exceptionally loyal. Perhaps unnaturally so, for someone who had to get by on treachery and deceit.

Antov checked his back one last time, he doubted anyone would be following him – not at this hour, but he'd rather spot them here than when they were holding a blade to his neck. His hand reached down to the door handle, feeling the smooth, cold brass surface. In one move, his wrist twisted and the door clicked, denying entry. Antov groaned, and moved around to face the lock.

He grumbled as he inserted the small pieces of metal into the lock. He was good at picking locks, but disliked doing so intently. It would be so much better if everyone just left their doors unlocked... it would make his work so much easier.

Eventually, the pins in the lock gave way and the door swung open. Antov crouched low, and began to move throughout – his celebration for his silent victory. He had hoped the bar would not be closed, that some townsperson was still hard at the beverage even at this late hour, but that luck wasn't on his side today.

Antov could hear voices, two males he though – concealed behind the wooden walls. He assumed it was the owner and some late night gossiper. If anything, it probably made his life easier, one less person that wasn't hiding behind a corner.

First things first, the guest register.

While Antov knew the politician was staying in the hotel, he had no idea where. That was where the guest register became the burglar's best friend. Even an establishment as shady as The Welcome Stranger kept some record of the guests who entered its beds – needless to say most identities where probably masks.

Antov slid around the room, and moved behind the bar – searching for some record of paying guests. His palms fumbled along the oak benches - bumping into the occasional bottle of top label or an empty glass. His face smiled when he felt the leather bounds of what appeared to be a ledger. His fingers grasped it, before his body moved below the icy window – which provided a steady stream of moonlight, the perfect reading light in The Welcome Stranger.

The man pressed his back up against the wall directly below the window. In the moonlight, he unwound the string holding the book before opening it for viewing.

The book was compiled with brown parchment, and the records dignified by black ink. Antov ran his finger over the newest entries where in some cases the ink still left black smudges on Antov's fingertips.

His finger nail underlined the name he was after, Arthur Pierre. Antov chuckled at the other notes "French. Rich. Spends heavily, spike drinks when ordered". Apparently it wasn't just the patrons of The Welcome Stranger that were corrupt.

The thief stood, inscribing the room number into his mind one last time. He could feel the air on the room now. Still. Cold.

This was all just so easy. How could anyone work in the factories when they could be doing this?

In little over a minute, Antov had found the room, picked the lock and entered. It wasn't much longer after that, that he found what he was looking for - a brown cloth bag filled to the brim with gold pieces. His smile reflected what one would see in a six-year-old boy who had just woken to find a full stocking, courtesy of Mr. Christmas himself. He quickly tied the bag off, and strapped it to his waist.

Now only one part of this night remained – get out, and get out fast.

The Frenchman was middle aged for his brood – that is, elderly for the common folk and an ancient to those condemned to poverty. His fingers were adorned with a collection of ruby, emerald and diamond rings – a symbol of this man's worth. He wasn't just anyone – he was very much someone.

"Thank you for the Rum, Paul, best drink I've had all night. I think the barman tried to slip something in my drink earlier."

Arthur's statement was answered by a deep chuckle.

"Commoners, eh,"

The silence was broken as Paul drained the last of his Rum, gulped and rested his glass back down upon the mahogany bench, leaving a rim of cold moisture. Paul held a very significant structure, consuming most of the wing-backed armchair he sat in.

He wore a pair of half moon spectacles – which rested atop his large nose most of the time. He was dressed in a gray suit, with a purple shirt – and a pumpkin topped umbrella that sat squarely across the man's lap.

He claimed to be a business man, an entrepreneur all the way from Japan. He spoke perfect Russian, and French. He apparently spoke Italian, English, German and Chinese, as well as his native tongue – Japanese, but all of those were generally foreign to Arthur. An interesting set of talents, Arthur had to admit. Few could speak that many languages, fewer still let those skills fail to be used in a political arena, diplomats and the like.

The last few hours had seen Paul, the business man, procure a large bottle of rum from inside his coat and share it between the two men. Arthur knew the alcohol wasn't cheap, the aftertaste and gold inlay on the label told him so. For a business meeting, not much business had actually taken place so far. Perhaps it was time Arthur started some.

"I think it is time," Arthur began, "that we discuss what has drawn us both out in the cold this night." He stated calmly – hoping to start the conversation smoothly.
Paul interlocked his fingers, and smiled widely.

"I think you understand the terms of this agreement Arthur, but I must warn you – the French people have never looked kindly on corruption."

"This is hardly corruption."Arthur responded, defending his morals. There was nothing wrong with just one more person having access to French records.

"Perhaps." Paul agreed, filling his glass once more from the bottled rum. "Remember, full access to French records, without hindrance from your government, or your people. Can you assure me that?"

Arthur smiled and answered simply.
"No one will challenge my word; I am the duke of France after all."

Antov watched from across the room as the two men continued to speak. The front door had just become the meeting place for a group of local drunkards, and therefore unsafe for an exit. He had considered breaking a window, but didn't want to draw that much attention to the Welcome Stranger – he didn't want anyone to be alerted of the burglary just yet. He'd much rather depart the building first.

And so, Antov found himself watching the pair of men engulf each other in conversation while he waited for them to either pass out, fall asleep or otherwise incapacitate themselves.

They blocked the only other exit out of the Welcome Stranger.

Antov found their conversation boring, albeit distinctive of their class. Generally their words didn't stray too far from the weather, the rum they were drinking or otherwise degrading every person who was not of a similar social circle. They wondered why everyone hated them.

Antov's eyes began to slip, his general alertness snuffed by the stimulating conversation. He hoped the pair would retire soon – they were outlasting everyone else in the city. Both men were well dressed, and both would pass as accomplished businessmen. One was more muscular than the other, and obviously richer. From the top hat that rested on the floor, to the umbrella and his linen suit - it didn't take a genius to discover that he was the Frenchman Antov had just stolen from. The thief made a mental note to avoid him if he was confronted. It was pretty clear who'd win the fight.

"No one will challenge my word; I am the duke of France after all." The thinner of the men stated.

It was at these words that Antov's back stood up straighter. He knew his target was French, and he knew something about a political background – but to be a duke? Why would a duke be staying at the Welcome Stranger, this meeting was obviously not 'official' business.

Suddenly, the senses of the thief became infinitely sharper.

"Well I hope for your sake, that they do not. I think it is time we discussed our price..." The fatter of the men began, consuming the liquid in his glass. Antov assumed it was alcohol, most probably top shelf. The fatter man began to stare.

"I have ten thousand gold pieces at my current disposal. More can be arranged if... well. That is not enough to tempt your interest." He stated. Antov almost let out a whistle. The Russian economy probably wasn't even worth that much. That was one hell of a businessman.

The other man let out a slight grunt of disapproval.
"I have heard of the business you run, and the services you offer." He continued, obviously declining the more than generous sum the other had proposed. Antov would not have cared, ten thousand gold pieces was enough to buy the biggest mansion in the world, fully furnish it and employ a small army of servants to look after you, and your family, indefinitely. Who could refuse?

"I was hoping for something... more real." He finished, watching the other man for a response.
"And what exactly did you have in mind?"

"Eternal life,"

Arthur stared at Paul intensely. He knew this man did not stick to the conventional business of machinery or mining. He was in an altogether different business, one that was mostly unknown to this Duke.
But he did know one thing for certain; his request wasn't out of this man's reach.

"Some say, eternal life is not the key to eternal happiness, Arthur." Paul began, emptying his glass for the second time that evening. "It is most definitely not the key to infinite power. Money will be much better for that."
"But you can grant it, can't you?"

Paul sighed, and looked at Arthur directly.

"You humans are all the same. Chasing what you think you need, without stopping to look at the whole picture." He placed his glass down upon the bench beside the winged armchair. "Eternal life, true, immortality – is not gained by selling another's soul, but by saving it."

Paul stood.
"There is a reason we are the chosen people, to cleanse this world of corruption, of the darkness that humanity has cast. You shall have your eternal life Arthur, and beg you use it well."

Arthur smiled, but made uncomfortable by Paul's words. He was different to everyone else, there was a reason why he was born into royalty. He would be the saviour of humanity, he would be one who could cleanse the world of corruption – untouchable by time. He stood, and bowed.
"I thank you, Paul."

The larger of the men began to walk out of the room, before Arthur quickly turned, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Is there some sort of ritual, or something?" The French duke asked, uncertain of the technicalities. His question was answered by a dismissive wave by Paul.

"It will come, I'm sure. The poison in your drink will take effect soon enough."

Arthur clutched at his chest, instinctively.

"Is it, lethal?" Arthur questioned, not sure whether this poison was a blessing or a curse.
"Temporarily. For you and your desire for eternal life anyway."

The man fell to his knees. The barman had attempted to spike his drink earlier, and failed. At least his aim was only to get him drunk, not to kill him. He had been deceived, lied to – and used.

His thoughts began to ebb away, his essence... fading. The poison was consuming him from the inside out. He looked towards the sky, and saw speckles of light, glowing orbs form in his field of view.

He knew it was over, heaven was beckoning.

Antov watched in horror as the thinner of the men crumpled to his knees, broken by the induced poison. He had seen murder this night, life taken. He couldn't stand by and let the other man walk away. It just wasn't... right.

Having said that though, Antov would be crushed by this man in a fight – he'd have no hope against such a superior opponent. All he could do was slink in the shadows, and hope this man, Paul, would pass him without detection.

"I see you, thief."

Shit. Antov had been found. He didn't have a choice now – it was either run, or attack this man. And Antov had only ever been good at one thing, running.

Paul clapped his hands once, and laughed. A figure, no taller than himself, appeared beside him.

"Akuma. Kill." Paul ordered, watching as the thief made a bold exit through the doorway.

Antov didn't have a choice, he had to run now. He didn't like that one command – kill. His feet slid on the wooden floorboards, and his back made sudden contact with the ground. In hindsight, it was lucky. The figure whom Paul had sent to kill Antov had fired some kind of bullet that had blown the roof off the Welcome Stranger, launching debris and wooden chunks into the street.

Antov didn't complain, it did save time. He didn't have to use the door anymore.

Within seconds his legs where carrying him outside and down the road, the padding in his soles silencing his pace. The rush of the cold air was oddly refreshing, after such an intense brush with death.

It was always cold in Russia, no matter what time of year.

Author's Note:

I think my writing is a bit different to what you'll all be used too, but I hope you all like it.
I won't explain anything here, it all should come clear soon... please keep reading AND reviewing. It means a lot to me to know that someone somewhere is reading this and enjoying it. It's probably the only reason this chapter got written.

Also, a beta is still wanted to pre-read all these chapters. Any volunteers would be awesome

~Jemgi