Alfred's anger issues really had become more of a problem than he would have expected. This thought occured to him, a bit delayed, as he sat on his knees in the World Conference room floor. He wasn't alone, though, no, of course not; he was surrounded by bodies. Motionless, silent bodies. There wasn't a whole lot of chatter amoungest the nations, and he wondered why. He wondered why, even though he looked down to see his palms slicked with dark red, even as he caught sight of France's deformed, bloodied face; he could only know it was France because he had the best-looking hair out of everyone else. His eyes flickered to who he thought was China, because even though the body's back was to him, there was a ponytail. He recalled China having a ponytail. Aru! He chuckled lowly to himself, sweeping his eyes across the carpet as he stood up; his shoes sunk with a wet sucking noise into the fancy design of it, and he couldn't help but imagine England's voice saying in an aggrivated, matter-of-fact tone, 'Really, this is such a bloody mess.' Alfred paused whilst wiping his hands off on his pants legs; wondering where England was. Where his Arthur was. He looked around the huddled mess of slumped bodies, and noticed the one closest to him resembled the brit the most. Alfred felt a grin form; he dropped to his knees beside the body, ignoring the soft 'splnk' of his knees hitting the wet carpet. He reaches and gives Arthur's body a shake on the arm, speaking cheerfully. "Sorry 'bout that, Iggy," he laughed good-naturedly, "I guess that was a little inmature of me, but you really don't have'ta start yelling about it..." He waited for England to start in on him about his manners, about how to handle sitations in a more orderly-fashion. But he didn't hear it, he didn't hear anything. Not even a scoff. At this, Alfred gave another short shake to the cold body before him. His eyes lowered to the fresh blood on his hands for the third time; and with a startle, he raises his hands in sudden horror, as if just realizing his hands were coated with red, as if he had been finger-painting. Only with his whole arms. It wasn't just blood. It was England's blood, too. It was England's, holy shit. Oh God. England's messied, bloody red appearance blurred as tears sprung to Alfred's eyes, and he blinked, only to have everything blur again. England's blood.
Alfred tilted his head back and let out a bone-rattling, spine-chilling scream of terror.