Back in a chic Parisian apartment, France heard Romano hung the phone.
"Ah, kids these days. Still suffering for love. It's as painful now as it ever was," he said to himself. Next to him, the supermodel he had spent the night with, stirred and woke up.
"Umm? Were you saying something?" she asked, and blew a long blonde lock of hair away from her face.
France scoffed out a laugh and got up. "I said I was sorry. I had an urgent call and have to go look for a friend right now. It's a desperate situation. I truly am sorry," he said pulling on his pants.
"Is that what you tell every woman?" she asked, settling back under the covers.
"Of course not. I'm usually more creative, and I wish it wasn't the truth right now," he said, throwing on last night's shirt and picking up his coat.
After blowing her a kiss, he walked out of her apartment. He buttoned up his shirt while he rode the elevator down, and kept getting weird looks from an older gentleman in a tacky dark green sweater vest. He straightened his shirt and buttoned up his coat. With an arrogant smile. He refused to be stared down by people with such an awful sense of style.
As he walked out of the building he kept thinking about where he could find Spain. He put together a rough flow of the events. Romano and Spain had had some kind of fight and considering Romano's words, it would have involved the old problem Spain had talked to him about, he was sure of it. Then Romano had left, and Spain had gone to Prussia's. Now, if he was Prussia, what would he do if he was presented with a very shaken Spain?
France decided they must have gone to a bar. Fresh air and alcohol seemed to cure all ills in Prussia's mind. And knowing him, he must have chosen a quiet place for them to talk. France entered and alley, and found an old rust covered door that hadn't been opened in years. He pushed it open without any worry for getting his clothes dirty. In Paris, even the dust respected him. He crossed the door, and found himself exciting another door, in a back alley in downtown Berlin, next to the building for one of Prussia's favorite bars. The little place he went to when his ostalgie was rising, and where France already knew to look for him.
He entered despite de "closed" sign.
"Excuse me?" he asked one of the waiters cleaning the tables. "I'm sorry for intruding."
"Sorry sir, we're closed," said a short, chubby man with an ill fitting black vest.
"I know, but I'm looking for a couple friends that might be missing," he took out his phone to show him a picture of them he had taken a couple months ago during one of America's parties.
"Oh, them. Yes, they were here. They started yelling about, uhmm, uncomfortable things. We were about to ask them to leave when they paid and left on their own. I already talked to the police about them."
"The police?"
"They came in earlier, saying that a Spanish man and a white haired albino had attacked two boys and stolen their van yesterday night."
France frowned. That made no sense. "I see. I think I'll go talk to the police then. Thank you," he said.
With a nod to the waiter, he exited the bar. If he was in any part of France, he would have also made sure that the man wouldn't remember anything about their conversation, but the guy was German up to five generations back. So German in fact, France was sure his blood would probably smell like potatoes and sausage.
He walked on, trying to imagine what Prussia might have been thinking when they got out of the bar. It wasn't hard for him. People often said that the devil's cunning came more from age than from devilry, and after so long walking the earth, France was inclined to agree.
He saw two police officers ahead, between a couple yelling women, and a couple yelling men. He lit a cigarette and stood nearby a cafeteria door.
"They're lying!" said one of the girls. "They were harassing us, and they got their asses kicked, so now they're blaming the guys who saved us!"
The shorter of the two police officers pressed the men a couple of steps away from the ladies.
"Is this true?" asked the other cop, staring down at them.
"No, of course not! We were just standing there, and these bitches told them to hit us! We're innocent. Look, the Spanish jerk almost broke my face!" said one of the men, a big, broad chested blonde who looked like he could bend iron with his hands. The side of his face was swollen and colored in all the kinds of purple that skin could get.
France let out a puff of smoke and tried not to grin. For all his bragging, Prussia didn't often hurt humans. Spain did, and it looked like he had been having fun teaching that boy a lesson.
"Check the cameras then!" said the other girl, wearing a very unfortunate orange fur coat. It might have looked much better on her darker skinned friend, but it made her look sickly pale. "Let's check the cameras and clear up what happened then!"
The boys paled. "There are cameras?" the shorter of them asked.
One of the officers pointed to a couple cameras on the third floor of the building across the street.
France took out his cell phone, discreetly took a couple photos and walked away. After a block, he dialed Germany.
"France? Could you find anything?" came the concerned voice of Germany on the other end.
"Maybe. It seems they got into a fight yesterday," said France, and gave him the address and the names of the two cops looking into the issue. "I'll send you some photos of them I took. Talk to them and maybe they'll show you the tapes of last night."
"Thank you France, I'll get to the police station right away."
"It's nothing dear. Call me if you find anything."
France hung up and pictured a rough map of northern Europe in his mind. The closest beach was to the north. A cold little stretch of shore that the three of them had visited once a while ago. Knowing Spain, he would have probably gone to brood drunkenly on the sands of the nearest beach, and dragged Prussia with him.
He could have told all of this to Germany, but then he would have probably reached them first, and France wanted to have enough time to have a stern talk with Spain, before would speak to anyone. Much less Romano.
