For this chapter:
Character(s), Pairing(s): USA, PruCan, France, Germany(/Italy), Britain. Background: one-sided USUK. Mentioned: Romano, Russia.
Rating: K+
Warnings: Violence. Language. Slash, angst, some other shit.
Chapter Summary: The body has been recovered, but the mind is damaged.
A/N: I fucking did it. I'm going to uni. Yes, I'm going to repeat myself. Ahem. Okay, so I promised Silence the next chapter of SMGO. Sorry, lovely, you get this instead. My bad. Negligible notes at the end. Enjoy, my lovelies!
Chapter Three: Code Maker, Code Breaker
"What do I do? What do I do?"
"Gas mask!" Gilbert bellows over the alarms, over the sounds of Britain's coughing, over the doors giving way. "Put it on him, it'll filter the air!"
Alfred does so, and watches, unable to move, unable to breathe as he watches the older man hack and splutter into it. It can't smell nice to someone who's been fed generated air for five years, but it seems to be doing the trick. He's still unconscious, but his breathing's evened out somewhat, shudders from his chest and rattles through the filter. It's enough.
As the doors give, Alfred pulls Britain onto his back, uses one hand to hold him up, the other to hold his wrists, press the cold palm to his heart and hope it does something to bring him round, hope against all hope that it does anything.
"America!" Canada bellows, swinging his rifle up as Prussia leaps from behind the doors, landing in the midst of the swarming Company troopers and disappearing in a fluffy of movement. The troopers begin to fall left and right, and then there are bullets joining the fray. "Stay behind us!"
He ends up being walked out of the lab with the four of them at his sides, and it grates on him that Prussia's at his back, but it's the most logical way. Rifles are foregone, slung over backs in favour of smaller guns, old bayonets twisted into knives, and they're hacking and slashing their way through the army that's come to meet them.
"They planned this," Alfred says as they tear off up a corridor.
Why is Britain so light? Why is he so cold and so small and so pale? Why isn't he here anymore?
"What do you mean?" Germany is rightfully confused, and he kicks a door in rather than wait for his brother to hack the codes for it. He guns down the three troopers inside before America speaks again.
"Getting Britain. They knew, They had to know we were coming, that we were here to get him back. It was too easy. They were waiting for us to get him out."
"And then," Canada finishes, realisation ugly on his face. "They were going to kill us all."
Prussia's frown is audible, a hiss of breath from behind his mask. "Bastards," he says.
Germany goes to the wall unit on seeming autopilot and begins to heave. Canada sees what he's doing, and helps. Between them they manage to haul the unit over and it seals off the doors. It won't hold for long, if the Company decides it's going to get them, but the few seconds it gives them will save their lives.
France starts hacking into the security as Gilbert sets about manhandling the corpses into a corner and clearing a space.
"America," he calls, and Alfred goes to him. "Put Britain down, I want to check him over. I can't do anything for him, but I can stabilise his condition as best I can."
America finds himself reluctant to let go, but Matthew puts his hands on Alfred's wrists and gives him this look, and Alfred turns on his heel and crouches, allowing the two to take Britain from his back and set him down.
He looks worse in the dim lighting; sallow and too-small and too old, and he's shaking, still hacking as if he's fighting the very air. His eyes are even more bruised than they first appeared, and Alfred reaches out a trembling hand, touches unkempt and badly-cared-for sandy hair, brushes through sweat-damp locks.
"Britain," he whispers again.
"Matt," Prussia warns, and then Canada's hands are under Alfred's arms, hauling him away, and America lets him, lets Matthew drag him off because Britain's dying. He doesn't need to see Prussia's face to know that's what he's thinking.
He watches in some kind of haze as Prussia's black fingers run over Britain's skin, prod and poke and feel at his ribs, the back of his knees, his wrist and neck.
"He's been tortured," he says, and his voice is barely louder than the filtered coughs coming from below him. "His ribs aren't set straight. The scars on his face haven't healed properly. He's been choked, I can feel it in his jugular, it's not pumping blood properly. His bones are very, very weak. I'd be amazed if he could speak, or walk, or even breathe normal air." He pauses, and those gloved fingers touch the mark America had noticed, run over it, trace the pattern. When he puts his palm flat over it, Britain arches his back, writhes and digs his nails into the floor. Alfred can see blood in the visor of the mask, but isn't sure where it's coming from. Prussia lets go quickly and says, "Shit."
"What?" he manages to gasp out. "What is it?"
"I'm not sure," Prussia says, and he's lying. "They've done something to him, but I'm not sure what. I can't tell for sure what he reacted to."
The doors rattle, jerk Prussia from his musing, force America to leap to his feet.
"We need to move," Ludwig says, a little unnecessarily, perhaps. "America, if you would carry Britain? Prussia?"
Prussia nods and steps back. "I can't do much for him. America?" When Alfred looks he says, "The mark on his chest; don't cover it. Carry him bridal."
Alfred nods – he doesn't have time to argue, but hates the blush that rises in his cheeks – and hoists Britain into his arms. Then, five seconds later, they're out the other door and sprinting along the corridor.
"We're nearly there," he gasps into Britain's hair, slamming backwards through a door and staggering to regain his balance as he turns to run along another corridor. "We're nearly out, and you'll be okay. You'll be just fine, 'cause I'm a hero, aren't I?"
It's five-fifteen AM, and the white sun is rising over the wasteland of London, sparking off the mess that used to be the Thames, and the sky is alight with radiation and distant fires, but Alfred is caught in the way Britain arches in his arms, gasping and laughing a little through the filter of the gas-mask, and one pale, shaking hand is reaching up to the golden sky.
It soon becomes clear that something is very seriously wrong. Once they're across the Channel, they make for France's base, and at Prussia's command, America puts Britain down. He's coltish, of course, his legs barely able to support his weight, for starters, slight though it is, and the ground is searing white-hot against the soles of his feet. America keeps a hand at Britain's back, ready to – support him, carry him, stop him – help him should he require it, but Britain finds his balance, and manages to pick his way across the rubble and avoid the metal in the streets.
That's not the problem, Alfred thinks as Britain, again, wanders off to the side, something catching his attention; a butterfly. They're not rare, per se, but they're certainly not everywhere. The problem is; he hasn't said a word.
Not for lack of trying; they've been bouncing things off him since they hit once-French soil. Asking if he remembered his name was met with exasperation, calling him Britain was met with confusion, asking if he remembered anything settled a glare onto his features, and they all had to put a spring in their step to keep pace. It's disheartening, but Prussia assures them that he hadn't been able to speak after getting dumped back in Dresden.
Britain laughs a little, now and then, a breathy little noise that rattles through the filter and makes America pause, heart hammering every time. He remembers what Britain's laugh used to be like, but there was nothing of it in the noise the other rebel made.
He'd put his old bomber jacket on him, an heirloom from a time gone by, but attempts to shove him into a pair of filched trousers were met with kicks and a tumble, so they gave up trying to put him in clothes for the time being. It wasn't as though they couldn't fight off the Company if it saw fit to attack.
Personally, America thought nothing of the lack of trouble, but, he supposed, there was something in it. If they'd sought to kill them whilst in the Parliament labs, why would they suddenly stop? There was a hidden agenda somewhere, but damn if Alfred could find it.
Britain staggers, and Alfred's hand curls around his waist, holds him steady until he gets his feet back under him – and when had they gravitated towards each other? America had crossed to the other side of the street, Britain leaving the butterfly where it was, and he allows himself to be held, turns his gaze to the sky.
"You alright?" Alfred asks when he thinks Britain's standing on his own.
A jerky nod, and he lets go.
"Where are we?" he asks about ten minutes later.
"Lyon," Matt replies from ahead of him, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his rifle steady against his back. "We're going to head underground in a minute and rest up before going to Moscow tomorrow."
"Moscow? Why do we need to go to Moscow? Ivan's a dick."
Beside him, Britain stiffens, breathing staggering and body trembling. Alfred reaches out, unsure of what to do. Britain staggers into him, clutches at his clothes and presses the top of his head under Alfred's chin. America squeezes him softly, hugs him close. He has no idea what this is, but it can't be good.
"What the hell is that?" Matthew asks. "I mean; what the hell?"
Francis watches them with narrowed eyes. Alfred glares back. "I think… Britain has always been uncomfortable around Ivan; he might be on our side, but he has worked for the Company, he has killed other rebels in Their name. Try to see Ivan from the viewpoint of a child, for that is how Ar – Britain now sees him."
Alfred, caught in the idea of Ivan working for the Company – why had no one told him about that, why hadn't they killed him yet? – misses the slip, and pulls back to look Britain in the face.
"Hey," he whispers, putting one hand on the Englishman's neck, thumb rubbing the underside of his jaw. "We don't have stay for long, do we? Just a flying visit. And I'll be there, you know? I'll keep you safe. Ivan won't go anywhere near you. I promise. He won't touch you – won't look at you – I won't let him."
Britain stares at him, and Alfred realises with a widening of his own eyes, that he has no pupil. His eyes are just green, flecks of gold and brown making the emerald moss and trees that are only just beginning to grow again, irises huge without the black of the pupil there to break it up.
"He's got no pupil," he says. "Guys, his eyes. I don't understand. What the hell, guys?"
Prussia appears at his side, forcibly pries Alfred away and steps in, presses his own masked face to Britain's. They stare at each other, locked. And then Prussia tears himself away.
"I didn't think it would be so bad," he says. "We can't go underground. We can't risk it. I don't know how bad it'll get."
"What?"
"His eyes aren't – he's reacting to the light. I don't know why – I don't think it's the same as what they did to me – I can't be in the light without something to block it – but Britain's the opposite, I think – I'm not sure. He needs the light, shutting that mark off from light screwed him big time, but – God, I don't know! I think – it's not safe. Whatever this is, it's not safe."
Britain blinks, frowns a little, and it's a familiar expression, and Alfred falls a little bit more in love with him for how much he'd missed it, how much he'd wanted to see that frown again.
The radio on Germany's belt bleeps, and he steps away to answer it. Alfred watches him for a second, looks at the scowl on his features, the way he smiles a little, soft and gentle and utterly loved and knows who it is on the other end, because only one person could elicit a response like that from the surly German.
"So what do we do instead?" Alfred asks, "If we can't go underground."
Prussia shrugs, and obligingly spreads his arms when Matthew makes a gesture. From what Alfred can see, it looks like part of the exoskeleton on the albino's suit's come loose, but it's hard to tell. "We'll go overland," he says with an idle little shrug. "I mean, it'll take ages, and we'll run into trouble along the way, but I know Britain, he can run. And if push comes to shove you can carry him, I guess. But we should go down, to Italy, hitch a ride up through the bullet train, maybe, you know Romano's good for getting his hands on shit like that, even if he hates mine and Lutz's guts, so it's not like we couldn't. We could just send you and Britain that way, and the rest of us use the underground."
As Prussia speaks, Britain steps a little closer to America, curls himself to fit against his side, breaths almost inaudible despite the filter of the gas-mask. Alfred glances down at him as fingers slip into his, wonders if Britain even remembers who he is.
"What is it?" he asks, deciding that it's not important, because something's spooked him, and a scared Britain has never been good.
With his free hand, entire arm shaking, the smaller man points. Alfred squints, follows his finger, doesn't see anything.
"I don't see it," he says.
Britain tugs him down so their heads are level, points again. This time Alfred sees it.
"Sniper!" he shouts, and pulls Britain into him, wheeling to put his back to the barrel, to keep Britain out of sight. He thinks he sees Gilbert head towards the hidden shooter, thinks he sees Matt make an abortive move to follow him but get shoved into cover by Ludwig. He's vaguely aware of how in the open everybody is.
It is a sniper, but it's a bad one; the bullet glances his arm. Prussia shouts something – Alfred misses it – but soon works out what it was when half of Lyon explodes around them.
Bomb.
++End Chapter++
NOTES::
I know biologically, in order to take in more light, your pupils expand, but shush.
In other news, I just ate a solid chocolate kitkat. I have never been happier. Also, my spellcheck wanted to change 'kitkat' to 'douchebag'. What.
So not a lot to say about this; I know Britain is really out of character at the moment, but you would be too. I don't think I should have to explain this, but better safe than sorry, right? I've kind of lost motivation with this, I mean, I love the ideas I've got for it, but this chapter was such an arsehole. It was so hard to write. I just want to get to the good bits, yanno? I don't want to have to waste your time and mine setting the story up, but I have to set it up to get to the good bits, don't I? Hang on; I'll get the ball rolling soon enough.
Hope you enjoyed my lovelies! ++Vince++