Curious Experiments

'Why don't we just go to the French government and tell them about France?'

Scotland exhaled a lungful of smoke, curling it lazily through his teeth and tipped his head back slightly. 'S'not our place.'

North, currently sprawled out along the back seats of their rented car, upper body hanging out of the back windows, shuffled himself out further to rest his head on the crook of his arms before turning to look at Scotland, leant against the outside. He'd got out to make the most of the sun and have a smoke to calm himself down before he kicked anything too expensive. 'But why?'

Scotland shrugged and deftly flicked off ash from the tip of his cigarette with his thumb, staring at the sealed off carpark from where they were parked across the road from the Auberge Des Voisins motel. Scotland had been hoping to be able to poke around the outside of the motel or lobby, maybe speak to a few members of staff, but when he and North had pulled up, they'd found everything cornered off and sealed tight, police preventing anyone who wasn't involved from coming anywhere close.

At the very least, Scotland had hoped to catch a whisper of gossip about what the police made of all of this, but everyone was infuriatingly tight lipped. That led them to now dawdling by their car, trying to figure out what to do next.

'Because it's not.'

North huffed at him and rolled his eyes. 'Yeah, I know, but why? It'd make this a whole lot easier; we'd immediately get the police and government's help, for one, and access to all of their records and what they've gathered on him, if they have anything. We could even go in and search anywhere without being stopped...' He trailed off, voice hopeful.

Scotland took another drag and blew the smoke away from his brother, shaking his head. 'Because, it's not our government; we don't have the right to go in like that, it's not the way it's done.'

'But you lot did it for me, at the beginning.' When he was a young child, Scotland knew North meant, when he was both physically and mentally new. That had been a laugh the first time, walking up to brand new Northern Irish government officials and presenting them with a toddler before trying to convince them that he somehow represented their new country. They had been somewhat disappointed, to say the least.

'That was because you were small; you do it yourself now. Besides,' Scotland shifted his weight to rest himself on just one leg, small of his back supporting him firmly against the warm metal of the car, 'we're under a common union. France is a separate nation.' Scotland hadn't heard of any other nation revealing themselves to a government that wasn't their own first. It felt so intrinsically wrong, stepping well over a vague and fuzzy unspoken, yet universally agreed, line that none of them dared stray across.

'Well, what did you do when you were small? Who did it for you?' North said, sounding frustrated.

Scotland considered this, sifting through murky memories of his own childhood after their mother had died and they'd all been left on their own. Flashes of events and moments mixed in and around snatches of conversations were all that remained, growing dimmer and scantier the further back he went. The oldest things he could remember were reduced to only feelings that emerged sharp from the fog; sadness, anger, hurt. Patches of warmth.

'It's not the same. Monarchy was everything, for one. If you got one that stuck around for long enough you never needed to tell anyone who you were; the King died, son took over- boom, life carried on. All this,' Scotland waved the hand holding the cigarette in front of him in a wide arc towards the motel, the representative of the bullshit he was currently involved in, 'is a modern-day problem. All the bureaucracy of new governments every 5 or so years, the faff of having to tell them each time they change.'

Scotland shook his head again, displeased with it all, and thought of Canada, who'd struggled to convince his Prime Minister of who he really was a few years ago. (1) Waste of bloody time, in his opinion. 'Going to France's government ain't an option without France, so stop thinking about it.'

North muttered something unpleasant sounding under his breath and buried himself more into his arms. 'Oi, don't get snippy,' Scotland warned, frowning down at him.

'Well, what now, then?' North said, raising an eyebrow. 'We just go home?'

Scotland scowled and didn't answer, glancing back to the police milling about the motel. He had no fucking idea, was the truth. There didn't seem to be much they could do from their end at this point. Wales was handling all of the fiddly stuff back home and had most recently been in contact with the French government again to let them know that the same agent they needed to retract warrants of arrest for concerning the kidnapping of an elderly French gentleman, was also the one who had been shot in the video now hurtling dangerously close to going internationally viral.

They were not pleased.

They fell into a silence, North moving to angle himself more out of the car so that his armpits were on the window frame, arms crossed over the side. Scotland fought down the urge to open the door and cause him to fall out- police probably wouldn't like that. Might get them to come over and start talking though.

Despite a potential fine for child abuse, he didn't think it'd make their current situation any worse, honestly. As much as Scotland was sure something must have been left behind here that could help figure out where England had gone next, there was no way he and North would be able to get to any of it with all the police in the way.

The next place Scotland could think of was Paris to try and get England's phone, if it was still wherever he'd left it. There might be a name or address on there that might give them a clue as to what to do next, but at this point Scotland was thinking that they'd be better off heading on home to give Wales a hand and hope that England wormed his way out of whatever pit he'd dug himself in, or that France popped up somewhere and got to his government before things got worse.

Either way, there was no reason to linger here; there was no evidence that needed cleaning up anymore, if everything was already made public. Scotland could have got hold of the CCTV and wiped it, if he had been here sooner, or worked with the government personally, if France had introduced himself. As it was, with the mix of heavy police and media presence and a government in the dark, Scotland's options for physical assistance in France was limited.

'What do you do, when you Reset? As in, like, do you have a thing?' North's voice broke Scotland out of his bleak musings and he tensed slightly, immediately not liking the direction the conversation could take. His brother made the question sound nonchalant and offhand, but Scotland could tell that this was a genuine curiosity and it made him ill at ease. England or Wales usually dealt with North's more probing existential education.

He cracked a knuckle with one hand using his thumb and took a final drag of his cigarette, holding in the smoke for a moment too long to burn in his lungs, and glanced about for an ash bin. 'Me and Ireland have something.'

'Like what?'

'None of your business.'

'Oh, come on! That's not fair.'

Scotland huffed. 'Life ain't fair.'

North gave him a flat look and Scotland felt himself relent, just a little. 'It isn't much- none of this fucking nonsense of England's, anyway. I pop over every there now and again, make sure he's still kicking. When he dies, I go and find him and wait; prevent him from being attacked by bears, eaten by wolves, or burnt at the stake for being simple. He does the same to me.'

'So, you just let it happen? You don't hurry it up or anything?'

'Aye.'

'Isn't that bit the shit part?'

Scotland nodded. 'Gotta be done though.' It was shit, but Scotland didn't believe in hiding the truth of something. The slow return to himself, the gradual clearing and sorting of memories and alignment of self- that was important. It helped create a firm and decisive separation between then and now, human and nation, a messy easing in to his real existence as he shook off a temporary one. Although it wasn't his life, the life he'd experienced as a human was still part of him and he needed that bumpy and raw transition process to help let it go. He'd always felt that France and England's way of doing things was somewhat cowardly; you couldn't pretend that these things didn't happen or cover up the ugly parts of yourself, they were there for a reason.

North fell silent and, sensing that this was a good opportunity to escape further awkwardly intimate questions, Scotland walked off to get rid of his cigarette end. He came back to find that North had twisted himself fully into the car to spread himself along the backseats, arms pillowed behind his head.

Taking one last look back at the hotel to assure himself that there really was nothing more to be done here, Scotland opened the drivers' side door and settled into the car, digging about in his pockets for the key.

'We going to Paris?'

Scotland grunted in acquiescence. 'Might as well try and find shithead's phone. Get you on the Eurostar (2) back to London to help Wales out as well; I can stay here in case anything shows up.'

'Why am I going back?'

'Cos there isn't anything else to do, is there? We don't need two of us over here doing sod all, and Wales is likely having a heart attack on his own.'

North made an exasperated noise but didn't argue further, and Scotland triumphantly pulled the car key from his back pocket. He had just inserted it into the ignition and was about to turn it when North spoke again.

'What's Resetting like?'

Scotland stopped, hand mid-twist, and turned around in his seat to look at North, hooking an arm around the headrest. 'What? Compared to dying regularly, like?'

North was looking at the car ceiling, intent on trying to show as little interest as possible. 'Yeah.'

Deeply regretting that he was the one who'd been caught to have this conversation, Scotland asked, 'The whole thing, or coming back?'

There was a slight pause that spoke volumes about North's true feelings on the matter. 'Being human.'

Scotland sighed through his nose and shook his head, running a hand through his hair. 'I dunno, lad. Good, bad; both. It's like being in a dream when it's over, but when you're in it, it's the most vivid thing ever.' He clicked his tongue, searching for the right way to say it, 'Everything feels so big: all of their problems, where they live, their life. And it is, to them, but it's quick. Humans always know they're going to die; they never think it'll be soon but they're always aware of it. That sharpens things.'

Suddenly aware of how much he was sharing, Scotland cleared his throat and turned around to the front of the car, feeling self-conscious. 'It ain't bad, but you've got years before you have to worry about that sort of thing. You're still only a bairn; things haven't changed that much for your people yet.'

He started the engine and nosed his way out of their parking space to slip onto the road in the direction of the capital. 'If you want to stay laying like that,' he called over his shoulder, 'keep your head down; I don't want to get pulled over by the police because you can't be bothered to hide your death wish.'

North didn't reply and Scotland checked on him in the rear-view mirror. He looked worried about something; face slightly twisted in thought.

'Oi.' Scotland called back to him, gruffly.

North turned to look at him.

'Spit it out; what's eating you.'

North hesitated before he swung himself upright, diverting his eyes away from Scotland to stare fixedly out of the window and clicking on his seatbelt.

'Come on.' Scotland prompted, attention flicking back to the road, 'What is it?'

'When…' North paused, looking very much as if he would rather jump out of the moving vehicle than continue speaking, 'When I do Reset… what- I mean, what will… will anyone-'

'Don't worry about that,' Scotland hurriedly interjected, wanting to end this far too personal and, dare he say, brotherly, conversation as quickly as possible, 'we'll handle that.'

North flicked an eye to the back of Scotland's head. 'You will?'

Scotland waved a hand dismissively, eyes firmly ahead of him. 'Yeah. We'll come and stop you doing anything too stupid, like wander about Belfast naked or run screaming like a banshee in the woods.'

North reddened but looked relieved, giving a small smile. 'Cheers.'

Scotland tutted. 'Don't thank me just yet, you can bet Wales will take photos for his albums.'

North groaned, leaning to push his forehead into the passenger's chair in front of him. 'Fuck, please no.'

Scotland grinned. 'Aye, "North's first Reset." It'll have a nice wee bow and it'll go in his cupboard with the rest of them, next to your babby photos.'

North scowled and flicked Scotland's ear, who in return reached out blindly behind with one hand to push a flat palm into North's face, before moving to grab his cheek and pinch it. 'And I'll take some videos, get America to make them into a TokTik or Vined, or whatever it is that's the thing these days. Send them out to everyone.'

'Don't you fucking dare.' Said North angrily, pushing Scotland's hand away to reclaim his cheek and rub at it.

Scotland gave a bark of laughter. 'I can tell you now, sunshine, that there's going to be absolutely fuck all you can do to stop me.'

For the first few hours in the motorhome, England had been left mostly alone and unbothered. After their brief chat, Jean had got up to disappear into the closed off bedroom with a laptop where England could hear him talking to someone in sporadic intervals, presumably on the phone. One of the men that he had hired had taken Jean's place at the table, but ignored England in favour of watching something on his mobile with headphones in and occasionally scrolling through an app. From what he had seen, it seemed as though there could be about 6 hired or 7 hands in total, and England wondered which one of them it was who had shot him.

The man who sat with England didn't attempt to speak and mostly avoided looking at him. On the odd occasion England did feel the man's eyes upon him, the human quickly diverted his attention under his questioning gaze to stare back at his phone, or out of the window, and never met his eye.

That in itself was strange. England was the one tied to a table, after all, and was seemingly no threat to this man who could also very well have a gun. There was no reason at all that England could think of to explain the strange behaviour, other than one.

The man knew something.

There was a tenseness to him, a strained nervous energy that England picked up on immediately, familiar as he was with the look and feel of fear. He had been alive for far too long to not be well acquainted with both and he knew from wise and observant experience that this man was incredibly uncomfortable to be sitting with him.

Humans sometimes did sense a certain quality to nations, could occasionally see through their mask of humanity to glimpse at the age that lay beneath. Nations were a heavy thing, an ancient and old creature that walked in mankind's skin and this presence was hard to hide in its entirety. Even the youngest of their kind were somehow bigger; made up of more than just one soul the space they inhabited was weighted down with years and time, giving them a depth that humans could never exude. If a human were around a nation for long enough, or was perceptive enough, they could guess at, if not outright feel intrinsically what they were stood next to. That innate and primal understanding that what they were looking at, that what they were speaking to or what they touched, was more than what they were, something that stood just that one rung higher up the food chain.

A wolf in sheep's clothing that grinned at them with a smile of centuries.

But this was rare. Few people every really cared to look that deeply, and modern day's society was, overall, far more narrowminded when it came to the unworldly, abnormal, or the unknown. People these days preferred cold, hard facts and science, and the existence of nations gelled with none of these things.

For England, this particular instance was more unusual because he considered himself to be rather good at fitting in, proud of a bearing and manner he had perfected long ago which cloaked his true nature. He certainly hadn't lost control of himself to allow anything to slip through, so why was this man somewhat fearful of him?

Feeling more brazen, England allowed himself to openly watch him, looking him over before fixing on his face. He was youngish, about mid-20s. Strong and healthy looking, but nothing remarkable. He didn't have the air of impressiveness England usually associated with such perceptive individuals, the Shakespeares and the Washingtons and the Machiavellis.

Under England's probing stare, the man grew more uncomfortable and fidgety, scrolling faster on his phone and playing his hands upon the table.

'Might I help you with something?' England's voice cut across the thick silence like a knife and the man flinched at its suddenness, although he didn't answer.

Hmmm…

England was left to ponder this for a while longer, interacted with only to be given a glass of water and permitted to go and relieve himself. This relative peace did not last long though, as he guessed that it wouldn't. Eventually, Jean emerged from the bedroom and motioned for the man sitting across from England to stand. 'Hold him.'

After only a small hesitation, the man did so, moving around Jean to stand behind England's seat and grip his shoulders. His hands were much too warm and England had to swallow back his knee jerk reaction to shrug him off.

Once satisfied that England wasn't at risk of moving to attack him, Jean rolled up England's jumper sleeve to reveal the bare skin of his forearm, before turning to open a draw from the kitchen area and returning with a sharp looking chopping knife and a lighter.

England stared at them blandly before meeting Jean's eye. 'Torture isn't going to make me talk, you know.'

Jean conceded to this point with a nod. 'No, as I said at the home, I imagine you're familiar with it in some way or another. No, no, torture isn't my aim here.'

Placing the knife and lighter on the other seat, Jean pushed up his own jacket sleeve to reveal a wristwatch, which he removed and placed on the table. Then, he picked up the lighter and knife before flicking the lighter and running the flame over the blade.

England didn't like where this was going.

After enough time for the metal to grow hot, steel glowing slightly red, Jean placed the lighter down and moved to press the knife hard against England's arm. Despite knowing it was coming, England couldn't help but flinch violently at the sensation and felt the hands on his shoulder grip him more firmly to hold him in place. Biting his cheek, he squeezed his hands together where they were tied to keep himself from making a sound and kept his face as impassive as possible, breathing heavily through his nose to push through the pain and remain clear headed.

Before too long, there was a strong smell of burnt flesh and England noticed Jean swallow, looking slightly nauseous. Although he was used to torture, it was quite clear that Jean was not and the idea of this gave England brief satisfaction. After a few moments, the knife was pulled away to reveal a bad welt, skin a fiery red and smoking slightly. Jean quickly swapped the knife for the watch, which was held up to England's burn, and dug out his phone, before tapping the screen and holding it aloft.

A camera torch light came on. England felt sickened, suddenly understanding the point of all of this. Jean was filming him, videoing how long it took him to heal and he felt fury spark in his chest again at the audacity of this man, the nerve he had for dabbling in things he had no right to even imagine.

How dare he.

England tried to buck himself free or dislodge the phone from Jean's hand, anything to disrupt the experiment he was disgustingly a part of, but Jean shouted loudly for help and another man came in, bursting through the door from outside, to hold England down fast by grabbing his legs to keep them steady. The man behind England also moved to hold him more securely, left arm coming round to encircle England's neck and yank it backwards, choking him and forcing his upper body still. Unable to free himself, England could do no more than move his arms up and down the pole holding up the table in a pathetic attempt to distort what was going on and make it harder to film, but Jean placed the hand with the watch upon his arm and forced it steady, keeping the other hand free to hold the phone.

They remained there for a few minutes, England struggling to breathe and continuing to furiously try and twist his head and body free.

It was no use.

'Oh my God.' A soft, awed exclamation from the man holding his legs on the floor and England's heart sank. The man was staring at England's arm with a mix of horror and fascination, head stretched upwards to get a better view. 'How is that happening? How the fuck is he doing that?'

Jean shushed him harshly and silence abruptly fell again. England's arm itched from the healing- small cuts and damage to the skin never did take long to fix- and already he could feel the wound begin to close.

Eventually, Jean straightened up and nodded at the men, who promptly let England go and moved away from him. Turning back to England, Jean waved the phone slightly- a mocking gesture of victory. 'Thank you, for that.'

England hunched forwards, breathing heavily, and looked up to glare at Jean, his face contorted in hot anger. 'Fuck you,' he spat in English, 'you do not know what you're playing with.'

Jean grinned at him, a sly slippery thing that England wanted to rip off, yearning for the sensation of twisting his lips in his hands and pulling them until the skin and muscles tore. 'No, but I have a recording of it,' he countered smoothly, English clear and lightly accented, 'so that'll have to do for now.'

They had been driving for a few hours when Scotland's phone rang. Knowing France so well, he didn't need to use it for a sat-nav and so had left it in his pocket, where it was now vibrating enthusiastically.

'North, get my phone.'

North huffed at him but leant forward and gingerly extracted it from Scotland's jeans, carefully making sure to avoid touching him more than was necessary. Once safely away from his crotch, North flipped it over to look at whoever was ringing. 'It's Wales.'

'Well, answer it then.' Scotland gave a sigh of frustration and turned the radio down.

Rather than bothering to reply, North pressed answer and set the call to loudspeaker. 'Scotland's driving.'

'Hello, to you too North.' Wales said first, an unconscious, annoying habit he had for reminding North that he considered phone manners to still be very much a thing one should aspire to maintain. North ignored him.

'What is it?' Called Scotland front the front. North moved the phone so that was more between the two of them and rested his head on the back of the passenger's chair.

'Where are you driving to?'

'Paris,' said Scotland, irritably, 'We've just past Angers. What's up, Cymru.'

'Firstly, France called- he's alright.'

Scotland felt his shoulders relax slightly in relief before Wales continued, 'but we have a big problem.'

'You mean, more so than the current big problem?'

'Yes.' Wales sounded strained and Scotland frowned in concern.

'Fucking tell us then,' he snapped, worry making him bite, 'stop fannying about.'

'After I got off the phone with him, I got an alert from the PM; there've been more videos released,' as Wales spoke North quickly moved to get out his own phone, tapping straight to twitter, 'these ones are more…recent. France told me that the last he knew, England was tied up somewhere and the videos-'

'Shite.'

North's voice sounded so small and panic-stricken that Scotland had to fight down to urge to pull them on the side of the road over there and then so he could figure out what was going on. 'What? What is it?' No one answered him and he briefly took his eyes from the road to check on North and found him staring at his phone, eyes wide. 'Will one of you fucking tell me, or I swear to God-'

'They're experimenting on him,' said North, horrified, 'there are videos of someone being filmed healing, the person's got a scar on their arm that I know England has in the same place- it's all timed so you can see that it's not normal. God, it's all over the internet, even my friends are talking about it.'

Scotland gritted his teeth and sucked in a breath. 'Jesus Christ.'

Wales made a noise that sounded somewhere between agreement and revulsion. 'Other nations are now talking about it; these videos have also been released by an anonymous bot with no other info, so no one's made the connection to the shooting at the hotel just yet or tied it back to one of us, but questions are now being asked.'

Scotland scrunched up his face, thinking of the political fallout for the United Kingdom if it got out to the other nations that it was England who had been captured and was the one in all of these videos. God, it didn't even warrant thinking about.

'The good news,' Wales continued, 'is that France gave me the address of where they are and you're not far; only about 2 hours or so away. The videos aren't that old, so if we can stop it quick, we may be able to weather this.' A pregnant pause. 'Somewhat.'

Wales recited the address and Scotland thought about it in his head, visualising the route he needed to take. He opened his mouth to say goodbye, when Wales cut him off.

'One more thing, England is apparently due a Reset, that's why he's not fighting it and why he's stuck there. He can't die there-'

'Yeah yeah, fuck it I know, I'm not stupid.' Making the connection instantly, Scotland slapped the steering wheel with the heel of his hand, the dull sound loud in the car. 'Fuck him, that bastard. How can he be so Goddamn fucking careless?'

He sighed heavily through his nose, trying to control his temper. 'Alright, we can get to him soon. I'm assuming there's more than one guy there?'

Wales hmm'd in agreement. 'France didn't say how many, only that they were outnumbered. He also warned that he and England both think we're all due a Reset and advised you to be careful. No one else can get over there in time and this can very very easily turn out badly.'

Scotland shook his head in disbelief, this was spiralling out of control far too fast. 'I'm gonna pull over in Le Mans to drop North off-'

'What?!'

'-and then I'll carry on. I won't be more than an extra 30 minutes or so if I leave him at the train station.'

'Hang on!' North put his own phone down and stared incredulously at Scotland. 'No way in hell, I'm coming too.'

'You are not.' Scotland hissed, glancing at him in the rear-view mirror. 'You're staying out of this, I ain't having two of you running about.'

'No! No way, remember what you said earlier? I won't be due to Reset for years, I'm the only one of us that is certain not to stay down.' He waited to let the implication sink in, looking disgustingly smug, 'I'm the only one of us who isn't a liability.'

Scotland heard Wales give a small chuckle and knew, despite all better judgement and reason, that North was right. He cursed something very old and vindictive in Brythonic under his breath. 'Fine, but you do exactly what I fucking say, you hear?'

North nodded, still looking pleased with his small victory. 'Yeah.'

'Right.' Scotland sighed. 'We'll be there soon; you okay with damage control, Cymru?'

Wales tutted. 'Not as though I have a choice, is it?'

'Good. We'll call you when this is over. If you've not heard from us in about five hours, call Ireland. Fuck it, Germany, Belgium, whoever is closest at this point. Might be worth letting the British embassy know what we could be needing help and to get some military on the alert.' As much as Scotland hated the thought of getting humans involved in this, some of their own, no less, they'd be the quickest response. They'd also have the benefit of following direct orders from their nations with hopefully no questions asked for the time being, which would be helpful if Scotland needed to take command in a messy situation.

'Alright, will do.' There was an awkward pause. 'Be careful both of you, alright?'

'Aye aye,' Scotland shook his head tiredly and cracked a knuckle on the steering wheel, 'stop your worrying, it'll be fine. Let us know if shit gets worse.'

Wales gave a quiet goodbye and hung off, leaving Scotland and Northern Ireland in a tense silence.

After burning him, Jean made a few more videos of England healing, each one growing increasingly more creative as Jean himself grew in confidence. He made a few cuts in England's arm, long straight lines that didn't go very deep, before deciding that they didn't look impressive enough and moved on to slice off the top layer of a patch of skin to watch it regrow. This made for better viewing, and Jean had filmed one live take from start to finish, showing the whole process from the first cut to the final stages of healing.

He had considered cutting off an ear to see what would happen, making half-hearted movements around England's head, but opted instead to snap a few of his fingers sideways, all humans watching in fascination as they gradually fused back straight. England had to resort to biting his tongue hard for these particular video attempts, drawing blood but determined not to give the bastard any additional sense of satisfaction.

Bone breaking proved a bit too long for a good video- a good hour went by before any visible change could be seen- and so the humans, all three men now very much involved, returned to quicker tests, leaving England's fingers to throb painfully at awkward angles.

The whole time, England managed to keep himself in locked, staunch control, hardly making a sound and staring at Jean hatefully as he began each new idea, imagining all of the ways he would kill him if only he had the chance, soothed by imagining how good it would feel to let himself properly loose. If there wasn't the threat of a Reset hanging over him, if France weren't locked away somewhere- shit, even if England was sure that there were only these three men to go for, he would have broken himself free long ago, rather than subject himself to this degrading display of passivity.

It disgusted him, the concept that he was allowing this, that he had no choice but to let these mortals do with him what they will. It went against every principle he held for himself, against every ounce of respect he carried and against everything he had worked so hard and long to achieve regarding his place in the world. He had been captured before, of course- had been held against his will many times in dank prisons and camps, sordid nasty places that festered and oozed. But if England had remained there for any length of time, it was because he had tried everything in his power to escape and had fought tooth and nail to prevent it happening in the first place, breaking mind and body in the process. That was not the case this time, this time he had willing walked into this mess because he had bound and tangled himself into a problem borne from his own stupidity and failure, and now had to suffer the consequences, unresistingly, until he could be bailed out by someone else.

England let his fury build, let it settle into his chest to keep him warm and alert and ready for when he could release it in escape, taking in Jean's features and burning them to memory- a lesson for himself.

As the day wore on, England heard nothing from or about France. This meant that he was either still dead, or he'd been dealt with somewhere. Jean seemed to want to keep information concerning England, and what was going on, contained and so only himself and the 2 current men remained in the motorhome to hold England still and guard him. The others, however many there were, remained outside, doing who knew what or where, and England was unable to tell whether this was a good thing or not.

From the position of the sun, and Jean's fucking wristwatch that kept passing about in front of him, England had watched the time steadily creep by and night was beginning to fall. France should be waking up sometime soon.

Thinking of that, England was certain that this was the only reason that he was still alive. Until he had seen France alive and well, England was sure Jean wasn't going to risk his death in case England wasn't lying and he wouldn't revive. (This wasn't incorrect, but not for the reasons Jean supposed). If France was caught, then there was nothing preventing Jean from performing a more extreme experiment and then this was all over. England might as well tell Jean everything he knew and let him parade him in front of the French embassy to get this shit show over and done with sooner rather than later.

Maybe England could throw himself off a building, induce a Reset early and hope that everything will have died down in 90 odd years…

He stopped his thoughts from wandering too far in that particular direction. As appealing as sticking his head in the sand and waiting for this to all blow over was, England knew that he needed to hold himself accountable for his part in this and work towards fixing it.

If there was one thing England had realised from this mess, is that there were vast holes in security concerning national Resets and things had to change. Not just for him and France, but for all of their fellow nations. Of course, there were already government protocols set up in the event of a death, but what about the data and medical history generated by themselves during a Reset? That in-between stage of being human and not was left totally exposed, personal information easily traceable and obtainable.

The unspoken rules of a Reset, the polite aversion to talking about them, had left such a glaring gap that England couldn't believe no one had noticed it sooner. Or, maybe they had.

Maybe it was only England and France who were this naïve.

Either way, it needed to be talked about and closed as soon as possible. A mistake like this couldn't happen again and, in the meantime, England knew he must suffer for his lack of foresight.

France ended the call with Wales and closed his eyes in relief, an immediate and heavy weight lifting from his chest. They were no longer alone in this, whatever this was, there was some sort of normality and sense of control filtering back and after days of stumbling about like fools in the dark, even something as small as this was a godsend.

Heaven forbid, they might actually be able to come out of this with something other than the worst-case scenario.

This whole fiasco had been far beyond just his and England's capabilities from the beginning, they'd both just been too stubborn to accept it and France was glad that other, less biased, people were finally getting involved. The fact that a video of England dying had leaked online, putting the existence of nationkind at threat, was shameful and from the bottom of his heart France wished they'd never attempted to do something like this so rashly. He should have pushed harder to go to his government.

But, if wishes were fishes. France was not a man to ruminate too much on past actions, what was done was done and it was time to get on with things.

He sat for a while on the floor next to the corpse, collecting himself and spinning the phone in his fingers. Everything ached, head and chest most of all but every single part of him. All of his limbs felt detached from his body somehow, stuffed with cotton and cumbersome they were unwieldly, now that the adrenaline had gone, and France knew he needed to rest for a moment before attempting anything else. Reviving from death was a horrible enough experience without having to then engage in a fist fight and the fact that he had no way of changing his current dismal situation in the near future depressed him. The lack of food also wasn't helping matters, France hadn't eaten for over a day even before his body had purged itself.

He ran his hand over his face, roughly pulling at his skin, and winced at the feel of it. He felt disgusting; unclean and grubby both inside and out. How many days had it been now since he'd last showered? The last time he could remember cleaning himself at all was a brief wash in river water the day before, and that was hardly clean.

Begrudgingly opening his eyes, figuring that he'd spent enough time wallowing, France glanced at the phone and noted the time- half past 8, he'd been here alone now for around an hour now. If Wales was right, Scotland would now be about an hour away if he was driving at a regular speed with no traffic. Thinking of Scotland's rather, enthusiastic driving style, however, if the traffic was clear France had high hopes that they may arrive sooner than expected.

Tucking his hair behind his ears in lieu of a hairband, France stood and made his way over to one of the sinks, turning on the taps before cupping his hands to fill them with water and bringing them first to his mouth to drink, and then to his face. He wet his cheeks, his face, and the nape of his neck; warm water dribbling down into his stolen clothes and dampening the material. Already, that made a world of a difference.

Straightening up, he regarded his reflection forlornly in the grimy mirror, grimacing at the bags under his eyes and the dun complexion of his skin. At least the beard helped him look more like himself, he thought, running a hand over the three-day old scruff, and this horror of a reflection was always better than looking 89. Human Francis wasn't unhandsome by any means (in France's personal opinion), but his current slightly sallow pallor was better than liver spots any day.

France was inspecting the rather alarming appearance of small crow's feet lurking at the corner of his eyes when a noise caught his attention and he froze, listening intently. There was the definite sound of footsteps approaching, soft thumps of someone heavy footed in the grass. Swearing under his breath, France quickly hid himself around the corner of the door, waiting for it to swing open and wishing he'd bothered to try and hide the body in the shower room before doing stopping to recover. Soon enough, there was the catch of the door handle and France tensed himself, ready.

The door opened away from him and France was able to easily make out the man who had entered: stout, stocky and approaching middle age and who, upon seeing the body, cried in panic, 'Simon!?'

With a quick jump, France had both of his hands on either side of the man's head and gave it a sharp twist to the right, feeling the familiar crunch of bone and the ripping of muscle under his fingers as much as hearing the deep crack echo around the tiled room. With a final expression of complete and utter bewilderment, the man sagged to his knees and fell forwards, France helping him down to cushion the landing and minimise the noise. Pulling the man slightly more into the room, France then shut the door behind him and tugged the body to the showers, where he lay it by the slight drainage channel running across the length of the floor. Unwilling to make the same mistake again, he then went and grabbed the other body, placing both dead men side by side.

Two down. He had no idea how many there were, he had heard the sound of footsteps and caught a glimpse of at least two men before he'd died in the home, but that couldn't be relied upon as a hard fact worth anything. Would getting rid of three be enough to even the playing field, or where there 20 out there? How long could he stay in here before someone noticed that men were mysteriously never returning from the toilet?

He paced, considering his options. He could try and get to England somehow, let him know that help was coming. If England also started to fight back, they may be able to overtake the majority; although neither himself nor England were what they once were in terms of sheer brute strength and stamina, they were by no means weak or past their prime and both still enjoyed a good physical fight. But if there were around 20 men, or even more than 6 left, if France were honest with himself, then it would be foolish to even attempt such a thing- they could easily overwhelm him, kill England, and then drive onwards to Paris or God knows where. They already had one incriminating and dangerous video, giving them a dead English corpse to play with as they wished would likely do neither England nor himself any favours. France also didn't know what condition England was in, it had been many hours since he'd last seen him and France doubted that he was being treated as an honoured guest.

France didn't have too long to think, though. Caught unawares, he jumped as the door to the toilets burst open, the sound of heavy panting and someone calling for Simon and a Christophe ringing around the washroom. France stole a quick glance to the newer dead man; the name fit. Suddenly realising that he was an idiot, France cursed himself for not checking the second man's pockets- one of them must have a weapon, he knew there to be one gun after all and surely that can't be the only one. It was too late to do anything about it now, there was just enough time for a new burst of adrenaline to prompt his body into action and move quickly out of sight, tucking himself once again around a corner.

He didn't have to wait long, bouncing on the balls of his feet France saw a new man enter the open doorway of the showers to gaze in horror at his colleagues on the ground, one with a head bent at a horrifically unnatural right angle. France tried the same tactic and lunged towards his new target, aiming for the head, but the man threw an arm up and blocked him, stopping and rediverting his weight to duck underneath before swinging forward and punching France, hard, in the stomach. He wheezed, winded, and almost crumpled, before thinking quickly through the sudden buzzing white noise in his head and pushing himself forwards, forcing his body onto his attacker and toppling them both.

'Help! Fuck, HELP! GET IN HERE NOW, FUCKING SOMEONE!' Despite being underneath France's almost dead weight, the man had enough breath in his lungs to scream out and France's mind raced, wildly plotting the numerous potential outcomes of this fight. He was sure that he could win in here with this third man, but at what cost?

Mind made up, France uncurled and raised himself up enough on his shaking arms to give his knee room to swing out, before bringing it forward again into the man's crotch, hard. Ignoring his choked gasp of pain, France scrabbled to his feet and bolted back through the toilets, hurtling into two more men who had appeared there. Both were too shocked to stop him, not expecting to see him at all, most likely, and France made the most of their surprise to push through them and sprint out into a decrepit campsite.

No weapon, no weapon no weapon no weapon GOD he was an idiot! France ran, bare feet pounding on the slightly damp grass towards the trees, veering to the left and away from anything that looked even slightly peopled. He could hear shouts behind him and saw, out of the corner of his eye to the right, the door to a motorhome swing open, revealing another man tumbling forth and land awkwardly on his feet. Chest burning, France kept going, trying to mentally orient himself to where the road, and thus the entrance to this campsite, lay.

He had, at most, up to an hour until Scotland and Northern Ireland got here, that long to keep free. If he could just lose his attackers for a moment, or distract a number of them into chasing him, then maybe England could use that time to break out of whatever he was in.

France could do nothing more than hope.

AN:

So, every time I say we're near the end I get to writing the next chapter and realise that that was an over optimistic lie, there is always more and the end just keep on creeping one more chapter away. Half of me is tempted so say FUCK IT and just cut things off to stop it spiralling so much, but I always find myself growing fond, which is extremely dangerous.

(1) Personal headcanon fun for me, but I consider Reset and another of my stories, 'It's All About the Delivery' to be set in the same universe. Canada had a rough time of it a few years back, poor guy.

(2) Just in case anyone doesn't know, the Eurostar is the fancy train that zooms underneath the English Channel between England and France. I've only been on it once and it is indeed very quick.

If you enjoyed, please do leave a review to let me know what you thought, feedback makes this old grandma heart happy. A big thank you to anyone who ever has, and thanks to all for reading!

Much love until next time 3