Hello! Three (yes, three) more chapters to go until the end!
So, I kind of have mixed feelings about this chapter, especially the ending... Hopefully, 12 will be better. I'm really excited about where it's going though; I like where everything's going so far.
To TheBlueAcid: Normally, I hate it when authors respond to reviews on their fics, but you left me so much good stuff, so I digress.
1) Denmark is everyone's child. Steadfast-Bright-Star has some amazing DenNor angst...
2) NMS is just too good. And Overwatch Beta just ended... ;(
3) I love your pairings, even though I know next to nothing about them (cri) they're giving me some good backstory ideas for that 1960s fic I'm planning, though.
4) The air conditioner line is from Kurt Vonnegut. Favorite writer of all time.
Thank you so much to everyone who has supported this story so far. Have an amazing day.
lovino
The theatrical glow of sunrise hits his eyes first, somehow blindingly bright in the darkness of the van, and his head spins uncomfortably. Outside, the Strip is barely visible beneath the winding highway they're on. He can see the shadows of deserted buildings, a few walkers scattered here and there, torched trees lining the landscape. The dry air makes his eyes itch a little more than they should. It's all glaringly eerie, to the point where he can't look outside for more than a few moments.
The others are sprawled over the seats of the van or pressed up against each other, damn that potato bastard, and Lovino decides to go outside for a smoke. The van door is irritatingly grating and loud as he slides it open.
Lovino hates how quickly his fingertips have stained that disgusting piss-yellow color again, that dreaded color you only ever saw on balding tourists' khakis in Lower Manhattan. It's a little strange, a routine he still hasn't really gotten into yet; Lovino hasn't smoked for years, not since Antonio waltzed into the room one day and told him he didn't want to suck face with an ashtray (not the exact words, but he isn't going to repeat what that bastard said anyway.)
But free cigarettes (albeit rather inferior ones) are abundant across all the hick town gas stations they've passed, so he can at least try to digress, clumsily perching on the roof of the van with a lighter in one hand and a Lucky Strike in the other. If he can't get back into smoking again, Lovino decides he can ironically appreciate the sarcasm of cigarette brand names instead.
The heavy cloud cover above is irritating beyond compare. Lovino can barely take a full breath through the fucking humidity and the smoke in his lungs, and the sun starts its exceedingly slow crawl up into the sky once again. The only semblance (God, is he turning English?) of thought left in his head is "He is not who you think he is", read in that annoying Eastern European accent that "artist" bastard had, echoing over and over. Lovino wants to do something exceedingly stupid as he takes another shallow drag. Maybe jump off the overpass, or punch the roof of the van too hard, or faceplant into the asphalt in his dizzy stupor. The shallow irritation buzzing in his head is probably the most annoying thing of them all.
Goddammit- that visit yesterday did nothing to settle his nerves (yes, he heard Alfred's irritatingly lovesick speech) and his thoughts are even more frazzled than ever before. Lovino isn't sure what any of the others got from knowing "Ivan" really is a fucking psychopath, or from finding out people who hung around him somehow got his fucking psychopathy too, but it seems to have had a generally positive impact.
Is it too late to question the sanity of their group?
His cigarette is dying down. Almost instinctively, almost, he reaches for his cheap lighter and his cheaper pack of smokes. Lovino can only vaguely contemplate the sharp green of Antonio's eyes and the taste of sweet, sweet Spanish wine in his drug-fueled haze. His next cigarette refuses to light up.
alfred
The first thing he can coherently hear is Roderich's voice, totally panicked and in a language he can't understand, rushing and stumbling and catching and turning this and that like a loose leaf caught in white-water rapids. The rapid assault in what he's assuming is German (or Austrian? Was that a language?) is unrelenting, even as what's clearly Ludwig's voice interjects several times. The halting flow of Arthur's voice saying something he can't really understand interrupts once or twice too, and he chooses to fixate on that as his eyes struggle to open and his voice struggles to speak. Alfred's hands are numb, somehow, and so are his legs.
At last, after finally dousing his thoughts in ice water, he manages to jerk awake to find the others messily clustered outside of the open van door. Arthur's hand is still on the handle, and the others slouch around him, glancing up at Al with widened eyes, even Roderich's torrential German pausing.
Unease drips into his stomach. Something is wrong. Alfred's voice uncharacteristically shakes as he speaks.
"Uh, guys?" No response. "What's going on here?"
Ludwig's eyes dart back and forth between Roderich and Alfred, while the rest of them just look plain confused. Al vaguely notices how pale Roderich is. Ever so slowly, Ludwig takes a deep breath, the kind of breath that makes your diaphragm pinch.
"Yeah, Lud, Roderich," mumbles Feliciano, sitting criss-cross on the grass, his bright eyes now subdued and shadowed. "What's going on, ve?"
Ludwig turns just as pale as Roderich, who clamps a hand over his own mouth with wide-eyed fear. Something in Alfred's stomach sways slightly; it feels like he's in that dim room with the mismatched chairs that graffiti artist stayed in all over again, the same pressing fear and tension running in his head.
"Roderich… Roderich says he's found Yao."
As the others just stare in shock, silent and trembling, Al feels the sense of closure from just last night completely collapse. A sluggish breeze creeps through the air and rakes across him. The implications of Ludwig's statement are altogether way too clear; whoever this Yao person is, he's obviously dead, and judging by Roderich's frozen horrified expression, there's more to it than just that. Arthur's eyes are heavy and dulled as well, the only thing Al can kind of concentrate on once more.
Lovino opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. The motion reminds Alfred of a malfunctioning toy in the weirdest way, with his movements erratic and slowly deteriorating. Finally, Lovino seems to bring himself to speak, and even then, it's a single, warbling word.
"Shit."
Roderich's eyes are still blown wide open. Arthur shuts his eyes for a moment and opens them again, carefully and deliberately holding out a hand, and Roderich unsteadily takes it. Those jade green eyes, now bright, stare into Alfred's for a moment, and Arthur speaks.
"Let's go. We haven't got all day, have we?"
Trudging along the ragged edges of the city, just a few steps ahead of them, Roderich finally starts to talk. His voice still shakes and his accent is still heavier than it normally is, almost bringing back that cacophony of German in Al's head.
"I-" His face contorts for a single moment. "I found him in one of the flood tunnels, close to the Strip. He's… You might not want to look." His voice snags on the last sentence, and the last of that relief from before is flushed out of Alfred's system faster than a dead goldfish. And of course, the unavoidable thoughts of Kiku and his unnamed companion start cycling through his head at the mere thought of blood, everything from tiny individual spatters to perfectly round drops to people-sized splatters-
Arthur seems to sense his already-rising discomfort and slowly strafes closer, the two of them straying a little behind the rest of the group. Alfred's suddenly vividly aware of the scrape of his shoes on the ground as they continue.
After another minute or two of prolonged silence, Arthur finally turns to him with something resembling worry in his eyes. His words are whispered, soft and rustling against his ear, laced with something Al can't quite read.
"What's ailing you, lad?"
Alfred shakes his head determinedly, trying to look away and distance himself from the conversation. Still, he manages to whisper back, keeping an eye on the four in front of them. "It's nothing. Nothing."
"Doesn't look like nothing." That wry tone makes his pulse roar through his ears, almost deafening, the rambling words threatening to spill out any moment now.
"It's nothing. Just- something I saw- thinking about- Nothing."
Another pause, and Arthur finally raises an eyebrow in something that looks like slight irritation but is probably just expectation. The gesture is more than a little endearing on him. Al holds back the weird kind of smile about to bloom across his face, even as the images in his head get progressively gorier.
The words leak out anyway, still slow and whispered, a steady flow Alfred can't possibly staunch now. "Just two people Lovino and I met, a few days before we met you. Two people. A couple."
"Okay."
"A couple." It's like he's trying to reassure himself of something as his voice continues to spit out the words. "One of them was bitten."
Arthur stares at him and does the Lovino-broken-toy thing, looking like he's about to speak for a solid thirty seconds. Everything is coming out too fast for Al to comprehend, so he decides to just roll with it, letting the last of it emerge.
"They both hurled themselves off a roof. Lovino and I were there when they did it. Together even in death, I guess." He tries to make it casual and short. It doesn't exactly come off like that at all, though, and Al holds back a serious cringe during an admittedly more serious moment.
Arthur just stares ahead, eyes serious and unblinking. They're still a few steps behind the others, Alfred notices, and the thick air suddenly isn't so suffocating anymore. At last, Arthur clears his throat with a sense of finality.
"Thank you for telling me, Alfred." A beat, and he turns to look at him for what feels like the first time. It's probably true; in the two weeks they've known each other, Arthur has never directly looked at him and made eye contact. But he's doing it now, and Al marvels at the delicate but sharp shade of his eyes. "Those things aren't the easiest thing to even think about, much less divulge. It's good of you."
"You're- You're welcome, I guess."
Arthur just snorts in a very undignified way. The spell is lifted in that single moment, a twitchy kind of warmth flaring in his stomach, those intent green eyes still there, still bright.
Alfred has a sudden urge to take his hand. So he does- and this time, Arthur doesn't flinch away. The two of them just stroll along, somehow pretending everything is right with the world, even as they pass the shattered glitz in the streets, even as they steadily approach the start of the end. The looming fear isn't enough to discourage him right now; nothing really is.
Roderich makes a noise in the back of his throat as they near what looks like a plain of empty pavement, perfectly flat and that weird gray-white color all new pavement is, his slowing steps making the rest of them drag. The only mark on the ground is a dark reddish brown smear that suspiciously resembles blood. Alfred's left eye twitches suddenly and uncomfortably, and Arthur squeezes his hand for a moment before pulling away. There's something constantly fluctuating in his face, something Al can't read.
As they get closer, he can see it sits on several concrete walls that look maybe four feet tall, effectively making gaping tunnel-ish holes under the flat asphalt. So these are the infamous flood tunnels; Lovino breaks into a sharp coughing fit right on cue, and Feli awkwardly slides his right foot across the ground as his balance slips up a little. Ludwig pats his back (with equal awkwardness) and mutters something under his breath.
"Are… are you sure any of you really need to see?" Roderich screws his fingers together, his pupils wide and dark against violet eyes. Somehow, strangely, it's a sight that unnerves Al to the fullest. Out of the corner of his eye, there's a dark smudge against the stark off-white background he isn't planning on actually looking at any time soon. Arthur sharply inhales and bites his lip, something Alfred can see out of the corner of his eye too, and it's pretty clear what he's about to say.
But Al's determined to push through his turmoil, to just get over it. "I'm sure. It's an important part of the whole Ivan thing."
Arthur frowns a little but shoots Alfred the look anyway. It's the "are you sure, or are you just trying to put on a jolly good face, lad", or something similarly British. Al just hardens his expression a little, pushing back the fear and expectation rising in his throat like watery vomit, pushing back the days of repressed feelings, pushing back everything remotely heart-wrenching into nothingness because Alfred F. Jones refuses to live this way any longer.
So they all drift forward, simultaneous reluctance and yearning in their steps. Arthur seems to have strengthened his resolve too, the fact only lifting Alfred back up out of one mood swing into another, reinforcing his thoughts with each second.
Another step. Cold, icy, pinpointed drops of fear seem to glide down his throat, even in his gloried feelings-high. In front of him, shielding the view, Feliciano gasps, a horrible sound. Al blinks, almost missing it, but not quite.
The person he assumes is Yao is propped up against a wall of the flood tunnel sitting up, amber eyes rigid and open, a dark ponytail snaking over his shoulder. Huge gashes rip across his torso, nearly dismembering him, everything messy and horrible and everywhere; the blood pooled under him and soaking his loose clothes is still kind of reddish, not completely dry by the looks of it, messy and horrible- and Al really wonders how stupid he can get, putting himself in this kind of situation again. His insides freeze up like slushed ice, uncomfortably runny against his veins, those wide amber eyes looking vaguely familiar in his thoughts. Arthur sets a hand on his shoulder in what feels like both the most familiar and the most agonizing way possible.
Al really does suddenly realize how absolutely staggering the amount of blood is. Thoughts of Kiku and his friend, thoughts of Feliks and "Liet", thoughts of Ivan, everything is just kind of blending together into something he can't really describe. It's like a wall of sound in his head, but the sound is really just a lot of fear, flooding his lungs because the fear is really just a lot of lukewarm water, is it blood because it's too thick to be water? because exhaustion or is it fear or is it lack of oxygen is making him see things-
"Alfred."
No, no, no, no, no-
It's a whisper this time. "Alfred."
I don't- I can't-
"Whatever happens, whatever will happen. You know what to do. Just-" A pause. His heart is hammering, clouding his eyes, numbing the tips of his fingers. Is that Arthur talking-
"Just let it go."
Okay.
And his heart slows, his eyes clear, his fingers throb uncomfortably, but for the first time since this crazy shit started, Alfred is kind of at peace with himself. He really is kind of okay now, somehow, not a false sense of security based on a mood swing, but actually okay.
Those amber eyes just keep on staring, and Al just keeps on breathing.
arthur
The ruined glamour of the Strip is beyond what he could ever have imagined, faded neon signs perched on every fanned-out building, broken glass and lights crunching beneath their every step. There are a few cars splayed out in the middle of the boulevard, crooked amidst the yellow grass of the median strips. They pass enormous fizzled-out screens, dying palm trees, those ever-iconic hotels and pyramids and towers and resorts and casinos lining the road.
And just like New York and Chicago, there isn't a single body, walker or otherwise, to be seen.
Noon is fast approaching, according to his timepiece, and the sun soaks into his dark clothes with overbearing warmth. The smashed bulbs scattering the ground reflect the irritatingly sharp light into his eyes. The edges are ragged against the soles of his shoes.
Roderich fidgets with the only thing they took from Yao's body, something that sticks bitterly in the back of Arthur's throat: a single bloodstained Hello Kitty slap bracelet, pale pink and glossy under the smears. The erratic snapping is occasionally in time with their steps, something he doesn't entirely want to think about. He vaguely wonders about who the man was, who his friends and family were, what he did in his spare time. They're thoughts that only drag his emotions down- contemplating the life of a mauled corpse seems to do that to you, Arthur wryly thinks to himself, and the clicking noises just continue on. That could be you, Arthur wryly thinks to himself, and they just keep on walking.
As they continue, they pass a huge (presumably manmade) concrete-lined pool of water, probably once a fountain of sorts. The dark water is scummy and dull now, mostly gone and probably only several centimeters deep, the surface brown and green and littered with little bits of trash. Arthur can spot a moldy page of TIME magazine under an empty Snickers bar wrapper. The headline reads "Solanum: The Virus" in blocky print, and Alfred glances down at it then back at him for a moment.
Lovino coughs twice and drops his cigarette in the glass, cursing under his breath. Feli adjusts his crutch and scrubs at his eyes.
"Ve, is that it?"
He points a shaky finger to two adjacent buildings a block down. One of them is taller than the other, the word PALAZZO lined up on its side. The shorter building is the same gold-brown color, VENETIAN clearly spelled out above its columns of windows, the two set behind a smattering of stumpy buildings marked in spray paint and a few dried out pools of water. The mere sight of the building makes Arthur's vision swim with fear and sudden nausea, mouth watering, stomach churning. Something's too wrong out here.
"The Venetian," murmurs Roderich. "Here we are."
Something laced in fear runs down the backs of his arms, cold and prickly even in the heavy heat. Alfred sidles a little closer, nearly brushing his side, something sharp and clear in his expression as he glances ahead.
Lovino just frowns and clicks his lighter impatiently. "So, what exactly is our game plan here? I really don't want to go through all of those rooms, and I doubt all of them are empty, either."
Ludwig anxiously shrugs and glances around, nervously rummaging through his pockets, foot tapping lightly on the pavement for a moment or two. Another cold chill drips down into the hollows of his palms. Somehow, in some way, something is off.
Alfred stares at the two buildings through his lashes. With a sudden jump, Lovino tugs his pistol out of his belt and swivels around to absolutely nothing.
Ludwig imperceptibly shakes his head and collapses face-first into the glass. Before Feli can even open his mouth, his eyes widen just a little, and a sharp stab of pain at the nape of Arthur's neck makes him jump with a gasp. The confusion of the moment is too thick and fast, and before he can say anything-
His head abruptly slams into the ground, studded with razorlike glass that stings like hell as it drags across his cheek. His vision swims in tears and shock. The shadow of what looks like a girl, long hair pale and clothes dark, gleams in his eyes. That last breath catches in his throat, and something grabs him by the foot and starts to drag. As his eyes flutter shut, Arthur can spy Alfred frozen in his footsteps, gasping for breath before he, too, collapses into the glass.
ludwig
Suddenly, with an electrifying shock, he wakes from whatever uneasy dream he was in with a flood of relief. His eyes are still shut, though; Ludwig doesn't want to open them yet, expectant of the sunlight streaming through his bedroom window. He vaguely wonders where Feli is, judging by how cold he is right now. Maybe he just did that irritating thing again, where he turns off Ludwig's alarms and lets him sleep. Maybe he just went to visit his temperamental crazy of a brother early. Maybe he's just boiling some pasta. Sighing, Ludwig rubs at his eyes and slowly sits up, the morning sun glinting in his eyes as he opens them-
And then the whole daydream falls to pieces as he realizes exactly where he isn't.
Darkness is closing in from all sides, heavy and oppressing except for a too-bright flashlight beam in his eyes. Cold cement presses against his back and legs, the others in their group still unconscious around him, a sharp pain throbbing at the base of his neck. Ludwig's eyes involuntarily flick upwards, and with yet another jolt, he suddenly glimpses the four people in front of him.
They're all deathly pale and skeletal, all staring at him with bluntly expectant looks on their faces, and he can do nothing but stare back in complete shock. As they just continue staring, Ludwig vaguely notices the collapsed body of a girl on the dark floor, her platinum hair fanned out around a bloodied forehead, her face perfectly fair as if she were just asleep. He can't breathe all of a sudden. The four young men just watch in perfect silence as he gasps for breath.
Finally, with Feli unconscious on his left and Roderich slumped over on his right, Ludwig manages to speak.
"What… What went on here?"
One of the strangers, his eyes an icy violet and his tousled hair a brilliant shade of silvery white, turns and looks straight into Ludwig's eyes for a moment. His pupils are disconcertingly large, and lukewarm nausea makes his stomach churn uncomfortably. Finally, after an almost painful silence, the stranger speaks with a halting voice and the faintest accent.
"Do you know why she took you all here?"
The implications are completely endless, and Ludwig's head continues to whirl as he goes from the girl to the group back to the girl to Feli's sleeping frame.
"No. N- No, I don't know. We were going down the Strip, ambushed all of a sudden…" He awkwardly presses his fingers to his temples in a numbed attempt to quell his raging headache and the mounting urge to vomit everywhere. It isn't exactly working out so well, but he can try.
Another one of the strangers shakes his head, all wide indigo eyes and slumped shoulders, running a hand through his pale hair. "I'm sorry. I really am."
Ludwig's about to open his mouth and probably stumble through a moderately illiterate response, the inept words already in his throat. The second stranger sighs lengthily and turns to his companions.
"We'll explain everything later. Get some rest- you'll need it."
The other two, having been silent in the background the entire time, straighten up a little. One of them tosses Ludwig a scratchy synthetic blanket with a worn out sort of smile. The other one just turns away with a heavy exhale, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The glare of his lenses from the flashlight makes it completely impossible to catch a glimpse of his expression.
"Get her out of here," mutters the white-haired boy. "We can't have her kidnapping more innocents off the damn streets."
"Language, Emil," the blond one reasons. The assumed Emil just rubs his eyes and turns to the two in the back, saying something Ludwig can't quite hear, and his eyelids drift shut with a strange sense of deja vu. The pressure in his head is about to explode, a feeling he can't put a finger on as soft voices echo in his ears. It isn't fear, it isn't confusion, it isn't anything he's used to-
Feli's warm against his side, warmer than the freezing concrete, and the blanket settles familiarly onto his shoulders. The indescribable tension still flooding his head gives way to something that feels a lot like sleep.