Matthew sits right besides Francis, leaning their heads together on the train running through France. They left their home nearly three weeks ago. He and Francis have been running, trying and failing to find someone to give them shelter, or take them to where the others are being held. Today, Sunday, they are to report back on safe lines and get in contact with each other. Alfred and Arthur are in the U.K. Lovino and his brother returned to Italy. Antonio and another student went to Spain. Ivan went by himself to the cold tundra of Russia. Gilbert and Ludwig went to Germany. They will spread out and pass through a few other countries on their way to try and get caught.

"Matthieu, j'ai faim," Francis mutters out. Matthew cringes. They don't have much money left. They will get some by the end of the day, but the scrapping for food is a part of the 'homeless' vibe they are supposed to be portraying. Matthew closes his eyes. He's tired. He can't fall asleep. Not when he's too aware of what he is doing and who he is supposed to be luring in. He opens his eyes with a sigh. He glances around the train. There are a few people on, but not many. Most listening to music and ignoring everyone else. Two men and a woman are in the corner whispering to themselves, pointing at Matthew and Francis together.

Matthew squeezes Francis's hand tight in his. Francis doesn't move but tenses. Matthew nods his head quickly over in the direction of the three talking about them. Francis grips his hand in understanding. The bus stops and they do not move, some get on, some get off. They are on their way to where they need to call the facility. The people have stopped pointing but are still giving them odd looks. Matthew is paranoid. They could be friendly, but his deep fear of actually being taken against his will is making him jump to conclusions. Another stop, they don't move. Matthew is trying to keep his breathing controlled, he can tell Francis is trying to do the same. It's not everyday you're stared down by three complete strangers like you're a sack of meat.

Their stop comes and without a word they scamper off the train, holding hands tight together. When they've been speed walking for a few minutes does Matthew take the chance to peek over his shoulder to see no one following them. He breathes a sigh of relief and slows down. Francis lets go of his own breath. They give each other small, fake smiles. They make their way through the busy train station, weaving through people to get to a singular payphone in the back of the room. They shake out just enough to get a call home.

Francis speaks in rapid French, knowing the language better, to the person on the other line. He tells where they are and what they know and how they haven't been taken. They get a quick message back of where to go next to not only receive money for the week, but where to explore next. There's a quick message from the others, all saying the exact same thing, 'safe'. Francis hangs up the phone. They look at the money between them. It's barely enough to get them there. They have a lot of walking ahead of them. Taking nervous looks all around them, they hold hands once more and continue on their way. They manage to sneak onto a train for a quick free ride. Matthew doesn't know how they did it, but they did.

The new city they're in is big. Compared to the little town he's used to, everything is big to Matthew. It's part of his excuse for looking around everywhere, besides the obvious paranoia. Francis plays tour guide, showing him around just a little, but spending no money. Matthew wishes they could have gone under better circumstances. He's dirty and wants nothing more than to take a shower and eat a hot meal. He peeks around and sees something that makes his heart drop.

He squeezes Francis hand. The French teen looks around casually, his smiling becoming strained when he sees the same two men and woman following right behind them. Maybe it's coincidence Matthew thinks. Panic is rising in him. What if they are being followed. That would be good right? But what if it's the wrong people? Nothing helps kill the fear inside him. Francis is no better. They pass by a fountain and the water trails after them, sloshing out of the fountain in a wave. Matthew squeaks, turning around to see the mess they made and comes face to face with one of the men giving him a lopsided twisted smile. Mission or not, he's afraid. He kicks it into high gear and Francis has no problems running. The week before they left had been nothing but running and training to get them prepared for this kind of ordeal.

They turn a few corners, listening as best they can for footsteps after them. Matthew's breathing comes quicker when he hears them trailing. Francis is gripping his hand so hard it might break. He doesn't think about the pain in his feet from walking or the burn in his chest from not having enough air or the twist in his stomach from not having a proper meal. All that matters is the fright he feels and the anticipation of being caught. He knows they have to, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. He closes his eyes tight when Francis leads them, knowingly, down a dead end.

They slow to a stop in front of the edge of the alleyway. Matthew can feel the water from his backpack sloshing around in his jitters. He spins around to face the people following them. Their smiles strained and psychotic. Matthew is vaguely aware of them saying something, their names probably, reassurances that they mean no harm, but the knife one of them pulls out shows the exact opposite. Matthew gulps and the water behind him seeps over the top and into his hands like a whip. The others notice and their smiles widen. Francis clings to his other arm, pretending to be useless, though, with his shock, he may just very well be useless. Matthew takes a deep breath and whips them quick as lightning.

It hits one of the men and he hisses, dropping the shard of metal in his hand to cling to his torn shoulder. Matthew backs up a step more. They are glaring now. The water wraps around his wrists and his arms. Some of the water circles around Francis like a demented orbit. Their captors grit their teeth. A blinding wind sweeps through the alley making Matthew unable to see through his scared tears. Francis is whimpering beside him. There are hands on him. He screams only to have it muffled by a hand. He kicks and thrashes making his water whip around him. The one holding him is grunting at the cuts being done to his body. Francis is in no better of a position. The air is ripped from him. Matthew is struggling to breathe. There is no air. It's gone. He claws at nothing. His vision goes spotty. He can barely hear Francis's stifled cries as he blacks out.