Alfred was angry.
He'd found more Americans. Plenty of other citizenships were represented tonight, though they didn't burn him so much. Hell, one might've been Italian. All with weapons, and all just asking for it.
This was the lobby. How did he get down here so fast?
'Doesn't matter.'
He moved from person to victim, tearing into them in a way that he hadn't been free to do for decades. No one approached him anymore, instead pressing themselves against walls and pillars and furniture in abject animal terror.
He hardly felt anything at all. Practically floating through the motions, his physical sensations oddly muffled. Invincible.
He'd been shot several times with needles, and they were starting to make him feel kinda woozy. But he wasn't done yet. The walls would drip red before he was done here.
'"V-van!"'
A fragment of a memory. A terrified little rat.
'"—Outside…"'
He needed to go outside.
People on the other side of the front doors were holding them closed as though their lives depended on it. But that was okay. The doors were made of glass.
He slammed his palms through them, ignoring the stabs of pain from falling shards. Most of them dug into other peoples' soft fleshy bits. He promised himself to finish that up later because the first van was there and heneededtogetintothevan.
Something important was in that van.
Alfred giggled. It—sounded strange in his ears for some reason.
He decided to start with the closest one. The van's sliding metal door crumpled like paper in his hands. People shouted in alarm. There were three inside. In the faint light of the moonlit clouds he could see that the driver was terrified, one was in a suit for some reason, and one was unconscious.
The van's motor turned over, but wasn't starting. It crapped out without going anywhere.
Alfred was still laughing as he dragged the conscious ones out by their hair.
Francis stepped delicately over and around the dead with a heavy heart and an active gag reflex.
Horrible ways to die. Fourteen people twisted beyond recognition. People stripped of skin and limbs. Fiber and metal and bone melded to make sick, bloody bundles all around the room…but no civilians that he could discern, thank God. The staff and other guests were nowhere to be seen, living or dead. That was the least he could ask for…probably a falsified evacuation or a lockdown. But who had perpetrated this horror?
The glass of what was once the elegant front doors of this fine hotel had been smashed to bits, and there were two more writhing painfully on the ground from the bloody shards between their body armor. Francis winced. If they kept moving like that then the shards would get buried deeper.
Someone was coming inside. France could just make out silvery hair and what looked like wire cutters.
In his relief, Francis Jumped across the bloodstained lobby to meet his friend. "Mon ami—"
The albino jolted back with a yelp, wirecutters raised high as if he was planning on somehow beating his attacker to death with them. Upon realizing who it was, he dropped his arm and gave Francis a black look. "Gott verdammt, I've had enough surprises, today!"
"Haven't we all?"
That earned him another look. "Not. Now. Francis."
In all the years they'd known each other, Francis had seen Gilbert weather far worse situations than this. As violent as this hotel lobby looked (and indeed it was gruesome), it was nothing against…say, the Battle of Jena–Auerstedt. At that time, the only sign that Prussia had even registered those 41,000 casualties and the oncoming occupation was a firm grimace.
But right now, if Francis didn't know any better he'd say that the generally unflappable man was…
He stared a second too long, and Gilbert caught him looking. "What?"
"You're scared, aren't you?"
"I'm not scared," Gilbert snapped, offended at the very insinuation. "I'm dealing with a battlefield crisis!"
In that moment, Francis could see him clearly. This was not Gilbert the Friend. This was Prussia the General. And General Prussia did not like a messy scenario.
"You are right," France said by way of apology. Now was the time for serious efforts. "These mercenaries have—"
"Not that," Prussia waved him off impatiently with the wire cutters. "I cut the fuel lines on their vans in the parking lot. Those poor bastards aren't going anywhere…the ones left, anyways. I need Birdie here. Is he still in his room?"
"That's what I'm trying to tell you!" France hissed. "They took Mattieu!"
Prussia froze, processing this new information like a wolf being made to chew on a stalk of celery. "They what?"
"Amerique has already broken down a door in his haste to be the hero." France rolled his eyes for his friend's benefit. "He'll be down any minute, I am certain."
Prussia did not reciprocate the humor; he stared mutely for a brief moment before asking, "France…do you think I did all of this?"
"Quoi?" Francis looked down at the albino's clothes. They were clean, if rather rumpled. "No, of course not. It's excessive, even for you."
From just beyond the entrance, there was a long, strangled cry of pain, and the sound of something meaty falling onto pavement. France blinked at the suddenness of it.
Prussia winced as well. "America is already outside."
Suddenly, France understood. The screams he'd heard, and the bodies around them that were neither guest nor staff. "Non."
"Yes."
Both Nations jumped at the new voice. Arthur was there with Germany. They looked red in the face from exertion. Arthur looked particularly miserable. "And we need to stop him before he leaves the car park."
Feliciano could see down into the enclosed parking lot through the window of their suite. What he saw reaffirmed his fear of the Devil. For surely this was his work.
America's predatory gait on the blood-stained pavement made Feliciano whimper quietly. He didn't want to wake up his brother when he'd only just fallen asleep again. His brother didn't need to know when there was nothing they could do from up here.
He'd seen Prussia sneak away from the vans, giving a wide berth to get back into the hotel. Why wasn't he doing anything?
His own phone wasn't working for some reason, but…why has no one else called the police?
Where were all the hotel staff and civilians that'd been milling about just that morning? Surely they heard the screams as well as anyone else.
Feliciano watched, clutched his crucifix, and prayed.
Sinister laughter rang in the air. A parody of Alfred's real voice.
Arthur motioned for Germany and Prussia to circle behind, while he and Francis advanced well within Alfred's line of sight.
The man on the ground was in a fine, bloodied grey suit, unlike the others. He whimpered as Alfred knelt on his groin to keep him from moving and ground his cheek into the pavement one-handed. His other hand was running slowly, almost sensually down towards his victim's knee…
England forced command into his voice. "America, stop!"
The younger Nation paused, his gaze sliding away from his victim to meet theirs. What Arthur saw made him gasp.
His eyes were dark—too dark. As if someone had spilled ink across his irises. Alfred's smile was wide and nearly all teeth. His expression suggested nothing less than sadism. It was…wrong on his face.
Arthur opened his mouth to say something else—anything else. But he was at a loss. France gulped audibly, but his voice was steeled. "You're better than this."
The American twitched, that terrible smile becoming a grimace for the briefest of moments. The real Alfred coming back to himself.
Twitch. His victim's knee was crushed in his hand, plastering the pavement and Alfred's clothing with blood. The criminal screamed, his agony ripping through the air like nails on a chalkboard. Alfred shivered in perverse pleasure. He focused on his victim's helpless writhing, transfixed like it was a favorite scene in a movie. Another twitch. "Go away."
"We can't do that, Alfred." Arthur made himself take one step forward. "You need—" '—help. A doctor. But I remember how you responded to that idea.' "…You're not right in the head, lad."
"I know that!" Alfred abruptly snapped, his glare absolutely poisonous. Another twitch as the man finally passed out from either pain or blood loss. Alfred gave an annoyed sigh as he stood up. Then he wavered strangely on his feet and blinked hard—as though he was having difficulty seeing them.
"I know…that…"
It was only then that they saw the several tranquilizer darts sticking out of his chest.
Whatever demonic adrenaline rush he'd been on had nearly run its course, Arthur realized. All they needed to do was help him pass out.
Germany and Prussia chose that moment to grab each of his arms from behind and wrench him further from his victim. Alfred immediately began to thrash and struggle. "I'LL EAT YOUR FUCKING HEARTS!"
"You don't mean that!" Arthur yelled back as tauntingly as he dared.
"I do," Alfred hissed murderously. "I will." He planted his feet and surged again, Germany and Prussia nearly losing their grips.
"Shut up already!" Prussia snapped.
With America's monstrous strength, he would get free before he passed out. Arthur cast his eye around for something that would help. Something he could use to possibly restrain the boy.
He saw it in the form of the person climbing out of the van with snapped ropes and an unused tranquilizer dart in his hand.
Matthew's expression was unyielding as he rammed the needle home in an outstanding vein in his straining brother's neck.
Alfred finally sagged, consciousness fading fast. "Yours especially."
Back at it again with an out-of-the-blue update. Been a busy couple of months and that sure isn't slowing down anytime soon, but I'm still around. And yeah, I changed the red eyes thing. Don't want people to draw the wrong conclusion thinking it's a 2p! fic or something.
Leave a review if you've got the time!
Later dudes. ^J^
