Waiting Game

It had taken a while for Jean to calm down. To have been so close to something that had moulded and influenced your entire life, only to have it jeopardised at the very moment of obtaining it… well. England could empathise with the emotion of loss, if nothing else. He certainly felt the fruits of Jean's anger: his jaw wasn't sitting right and his face and chest felt tender from where the man had vented his frustrations. Superficial things that would heal before too long.

England let his own fury at the treatment simmer, let help him maintain a level head and stay focused. Aside from the affront of being captured and held, by a middle-aged human, no less, it was that he knew he had to allow this situation to continue. Because as much as he wanted to tear this tiny man limb from limb, England's main concern now was not dying.

Jean knew too much, far far too much. He mightn't know the full story, or the implications of what he did know, but he knew enough to be a very dangerous problem. With modern technology and advanced science, nationhood was already walking a very fine line, teetering just on the point of discovery. And discovery was not something any of them desired.

A nation's position, their reason for being, was to represent their people. A nation was the voice, the soul, and the embodiment of a collective. They did not exist for their people, they existed only because of them. They were not there to control or to influence, to be elevated above their citizens as something greater or more important. National beings were there to live amongst them, to be their voice and represent their beliefs, to maintain and represent that singular identity that collectively drew people together and want to call themselves 'us'.

It had not always been so black and white. For many cultures, nationkind had once been widely accepted as part of the everyday working of things. England's first Celtic people had believed them to be powerful beings of mystery and luck, but they also understood them as rational things; something as natural as the hills and rivers that made them. The vague memories England still delicately held from his early childhood involved being in his people's settlements and villages, playing with the local children and his brothers whilst his mother wove or discussed war. But as humanity shifted and changed, turning away from the earth and moving more towards national identity and self-progression, England's ilk slipped into the shadows, shaping themselves accordingly.

For recent millennia, then, the discovery of their kind had been a dangerous one, a risky game that each of them played differently. Was this human safe to tell, are they worthy of that knowledge? Were they ready for responsibility of knowing what stood before them, truly know? Did they have the potential to take their nation's trust and do great things, achieve great things, push for the advancement of their people? There were few. Few who were not the immediate king, ruler, or whatever leading role a human could be. Even then, just leading a country did not give a human a guaranteed right of such ancient knowledge. Tt was something their nation chose, a rite of respect they could grant; an honour to know and a heavy burden to bear. So, to be found out this way, for someone to come even this close to learning of who- of what- he truly was without his permission, without his leave or say so, and then to dare threaten to use it against him?

England was furious.

England was furious, and had to hold himself there, had to take the offense of Jean's disrespect; the beatings and the manhandling. Because dying now would mean a Reset, which meant leaving his body behind to be prodded and analysed and used in a sick demonstration of something. Usually this was no matter, England wasn't exactly particular about what happened to a body he was no longer inhabiting, but leaving it with a man who knew as much as Jean did would be foolish to the point of madness.

So, England let Jean hit him, forced himself to sit passively whilst he raged and howled with France cooling at his feet. He waited and channelled his anger into thinking, into planning, into staying focused on the true goal; get out alive. Second to that, would be to destroy all evidence, right down to the sweating, raving fool in front of him.

Eventually, Jean ordered his men to pack and clean up quickly. He'd got what he wanted, after all, and there was no good sense in sticking around. With surprising efficiency, they collected the generators and lamps, picked up France's body, and cleaned the blood left behind with some very professional looking chemicals England had a feeling were from the home's medical supplies. England himself, after being patted down and his pocket knife removed from his person, was retied at the hands and escorted to a van outside, inconspicuously tucked away around the back of the home.

The van was a medical vehicle used by the home for body transportation and so wasn't fitted with windows or seating aside from the driver's and passenger's seat in the front, just storage shelving and metal partitions. It was to one of these shelves that England was tied, this time with more cable tie than before. He had made no attempt to struggle on the move from Francis' old room to his new location and he could tell that Jean was suspicious of this- even tied up, England could hear that a man had been left to stand guard by the door, shuffling from side to side where he leant on the metal.

England rubbed his jaw on a shoulder, gently helping it to click back into place, and weighed up his options. His hope, in an ideal world, was that France's body would be left at the home. However, he also knew that was extremely optimistic. Jean had already demonstrated himself to be a clever man and England knew that he was unlikely to leave France behind, even if he did believe England's lie that he'd decompose quickly. All England really hoped for, then, was that he believed England enough to leave the body alone for a time, which could give France the chance to wake up and get assistance.

Assistance. Help. England grimaced at the thought. He knew that this would mean other people would be brought into this, either by being dragged into his current ridiculous situation, or the aftermath. Not only other nations but their politicians and their governments. England would morph into the poster example of 'What Not to Do' and 'The Worst Possible Outcome'; the whole concept he hated more than he could properly put into words. The humiliation of being kidnapped and outsmarted by someone one thirtieth of his age and needing rescue was bad enough, but he knew this would lead into the discussion about his Reset process and that was…oddly worse.

He couldn't really articulate why, couldn't even explain it to himself, but the whole thing made him feel vulnerable, exposed maybe. As though he were baring a part of himself that no one should see, something raw and weak and ugly. He felt like a child that needed training wheels to ride a bike, or a hand to hold for a first lesson in ice-skating: unable to function without that extra help lest he crash. The thought of it sent a burning pulse of shame through him. The idea that he did this whole charade with France, that he needed it, that he relied on it so heavily that he had recklessly brought forth a consequence that threatened all of them, was shameful.

Despite his misgivings, he knew that this was something that his pride needed to overcome; losing face in this regard was a far better outcome to the alternative, no matter the social stigma it may bring him.

England had stretched out his legs and tried to get comfortable when his attention was drawn to voices outside. There was a brief, hushed conversation, before the doors were suddenly opened and France's body was thrown in, wrapped up in one of the home's medical body bags. England managed to pull his legs back in time to avoid the impact and looked up to catch Jean's eye, who was peering at him with an unreadable expression.

England stared at him in turn, face blank, and Jean arched an eyebrow with a faint grin, before shutting the doors again.

North pulled his hood further down his head and tried to disappear as much as was possible into the booth he was sat in. Behind him, by the tills and display cases of croissants and cakes, he could hear his brother asking to speak to anyone who had been at work there the other day.

Loudly.

'Yes, I understand that you weren't here then,' Scotland's French was fast becoming slower and more pronounced, each word said carefully and deliberately as he became frustrated. North wanted to die. 'But I want you to get me someone who was…No one? Really? Come on now, you expect me to-'

A frustrated, quiet response from the server cut Scotland off.

North heard a painfully over exaggerated sigh before Scotland conceded and ordered them something to eat. After a few minutes, at Scotland's heavy approach, North pushed himself to the furthest corner to look out of the window at the car park, trying to give as visible a signal as possible to anyone watching that he didn't want to be associated with the walking embarrassment lumbering his way.

'I ordered you an eggs benedict, I couldn't remember if you liked omelettes. Put your hood down!'

North's hood was suddenly whipped away, exposing him. He scowled. 'I hate eggs benedict and I love omelettes.'

Scotland eased himself into the booth opposite. 'Ah well, you can go up and tell 'em that.'

'I'm not going to do that! Whatever, I'll just leave it.'

'You will not; no wasting food.'

'But I don't like it!'

'Stop being such a mardy arse, they're both eggs.'

'But they're different.' North hissed, maintaining a publicly acceptable volume.

Scotland shook his head in displeasure. 'Arthur's been far too soft with you; ain't right to be so fussy about food. What would you do if there was a food shortage, or a war?'

'What are you even saying? That I would starve to death because omelettes stopped existing?' North said incredulously, scowling at his brother, 'What are you being such a dick to me for? Not like I've fucked up the most recently.'

At the mention of their current situation, Scotland's expression darkened and North felt a shot of vindictive pleasure go through him, happy that England existed as a greater annoyance to Scotland to ease off heat from him.

Scotland huffed. 'I'll go up and change your fucking eggs, you wee prissy shite stain.'

'No! Wait, don't-' Scotland moved off before North could prevent him and he groaned, slumping back into his booth and pulling his hood over his head again. They were currently in a little café near Luçon National Park, where England's debit card had last been used. They'd been hoping to find someone on shift that day who'd seen their brother and could maybe give them a bit more information. Was he alone? Did he look well? Did he say why he was here or where he was going? England wasn't usually so chatty and open with strangers, but if France was still with him then maybe someone would remember England as the grouchy looking troll with that nice pretty blond man. Alas, no such luck.

Familiar footfalls soon alerted North to Scotland's returning presence, meaning that he wasn't surprised at his hood being tugged down again. 'I'm gonna cut those off all of your hoodies if you keep doing that.' Scotland said, sitting down heavily. A rather broad man, Scotland looked distinctly awkward and cumbersome in the booth, something that North, unfairly he knew, was annoyed by as it gained them more attention than he wished.

'Any news from Rhys?' Scotland asked, when their drinks arrived soon after he sat down, one tea and one coke.

North took an appreciative sip of his fizzy drink. 'Nothing since his last call.' The last thing they'd heard from Wales was that everything on the government side was sorted: the warrant for England's arrest had been quietly recalled and an official statement had been prepared and approved by their government, ready to be sent out if needed. Hospitals and morgues had also been checked but, matching what Wales himself already found, no Arthur Kirkland was registered by name or description anywhere in the country.

Wales had still sounded very contrite on the phone whilst relaying this update and North felt sorry for him. England was a stubborn bull-headed bastard and he doubted that Wales would have been able to stop him from doing something he'd set his mind to with anything less than threaten a referendum, which Wales was far too kind to do as a ploy. Scotland had at least calmed down since his explosion at Mexico City airport; making Wales feel worse about the situation was hardly going to help things, although North guessed that blaming Wales for a part of it was a way for Scotland to make himself feel slightly better.

If you can't yell at one sibling about how stupid they were, it felt almost as good to yell at another.

Their food arrived before too long (his omelette was delicious) and the two brothers ate in a comfortable silence. Scotland looked frustrated though and North couldn't blame him. If they could get no lead here as to where England might now be, then they really didn't have anything and the longer England went without calling, the more likely it was that he couldn't.

There had been a minor breakthrough when North remembered that he'd installed a 'Find My Phone' app on England's mobile for situations such as this (although, maybe not quite this), but it revealed that it was in Paris, at the Gare du Nord station. This was its last known location anyway, the battery had died days ago which could mean either that England hadn't been able to charge it since he was in Paris, or he'd left it there. Regardless, the days didn't match up and this café was still his potentially last known location. Figuring out why was a different matter, however.

Noticing Scotland get out his phone to stab at it with his large sausage fingers, North got out his own, feeling safe that he wouldn't be scolded for being impolite. His older siblings were hypocrites, the lot of them. Checking that there were no missed calls or new texts from Wales, or another nation, North opened Facebook to scroll aimlessly down his newsfeed. Sadly, there was nothing new or exciting to distract him, so he looked up and turned his attention to the café's TV, mounted on the wall behind Scotland. It was muted, but there were still subtitles to read.

'Lad?' He started in surprise, feeling Scotland's heavy hand come to rest on his arm and give it a little shake. 'You look like you've just walked in on Patrick* naked.'

North pulled his gaze from the TV to Scotland, who was looking at him in what he recognised through years of experience reading his brother as well disguised concern. He gestured at the TV with his chin. 'Look.'

Scotland swivelled around, arm coming to rest on the back of the booth. 'Oh fuck.'

'-ording of a shooting at the Auberge Des Voisins motel near Fouras has been made public. Footage shows two men alone in a ground floor room before one of them is shot in the chest, the shooter being close by the person recording. The men are unknown; officials say the names they checked in under are aliases, and the owner of the video has also not been identified. Aside from being uploaded to all social media outlets from bot accounts, the footage was also sent to all media stations, the clear implication being that whoever recorded this event wanted it to be seen.'

England was unsure of exactly how long they'd been driving, but it must have been at least an hour or two. France hadn't stirred, but had rolled about the van rather pathetically and had provided some form of entertainment for the duration.

Eventually, the road turned rougher. They bumped along for a while like this before they stopped and England was released from the stuffy vehicle to find himself in an abandoned looking campsite surrounded by a wood. He couldn't tell if it was privately owned and never intended for commercial use, or whether it had once been something more substantial and had been abandoned at some point. Rather stereotypical of America's horror films, he thought to himself drily. But at least it was now the morning- nearing midday if England's read of the sun was right.

There wasn't really much there. A small tap set against an unremarkable concrete building of some kind. A dirt track from the main roads which led to a large clearing in the trees; an electricity tower and conductor. A very, very old caravan (1), out of fashion design and yellowed with murky windows, and then a newer looking motorhome (2) parked up next to it.

England looked at Jean, who was standing nearby, in askance.

'Temporary,' he said, watching England give the place a once over, 'Just to see what happens; if anything happens.'

'And to make sure there's no one following, I imagine.'

Jean laughed. 'That too. I did something rather interesting not too long ago and it's never wise to throw all of your cards down at once.'

England raised an eyebrow, but Jean shook his head in response and gestured for him to walk forwards towards the motorhome. England very much wanted to glance back at the van and check to see if France was being taken anywhere, but he didn't want to imply that there was anything of interest in his body. Instead, he regarded the motorhome uneasily. Every instinct he still possessed that dealt with his self-preservation was screaming at him to do the exact opposite of what Jean wanted and instead either turn around and run away, or to go down fighting.

Cursing his lack of alternatives, England walked forwards, Jean following closely behind.

It was clean inside the motorhome, if nothing else. Inside, England was directed down to a breakfast table just before a door which led to presumably a bedroom. He was prompted to sit and, upon doing so, Jean attached his tied hands to a pole supporting the table before bending to do the same to his feet, cable tie tight around his ankles.

England quickly scanned about him for weakness. The pole was removable, the table could fold away and the area turned into another bed; tugging on it hard enough would break it. Window, a thick acrylic plastic- shatterproof. Could potentially break it outwards, needed something heavy. The table? Maybe. Doors, one. He heard the lock turn after they entered, no good. Window was better.

As Jean stood England paused in his observations, looking to meet his eye as the man slid into the chair opposite.

'Well, now we can have a longer chat.'

'What makes you think I'm willing to talk?'

Jean shrugged. 'What else have you to do?'

England said nothing and Jean allowed the silence for a time, drumming his fingers on the table top and watching him. 'You have no intention of helping me,' he said eventually, 'do you?'

England huffed a laugh. 'Not a chance.'

Jean shook his head, disappointed. 'All I wanted was to clear my family's name,' he said, softly. He looked England in the eye and held his gaze with determination. 'Why must children pay for the mistakes of their parents? Why should my mother and uncle have had to have grown up in shame? My grandmother changed their last names, tried to distance them from him as much as possible. That feeling, that fear of being related to him- of our family, passed to me, and my cousins; trauma passed down through generations. We were punished for something that happened decades before we were born. How is that just?'

'I never said that it was,' England said carefully. And that may have been all you wanted then, but it certainly isn't all that you want now. 'I am as much an unwilling participant in this as you.'

Jean gave him a look of disgust. 'And that is the problem. You believe this doesn't concern you, so you don't care. You had a hand in the events that caused it and you could have helped to clear things up. But, you didn't.'

'Your grandfather killed Francis,' England countered, tone icy 'I was also wholly unaware as to why. Besides, I have since learnt that he suspected me of working against the French government. He had decided both mine and Francis' merit, acted on those assumptions and he was wrong.'

England shook his head in contempt. 'Do you suppose that I have a moral obligation to assist you, then? My, how arrogant.' He gestured at Jean with his head. 'You have done the exact same thing as he did. There were many many ways that you could have gone about this but you have chosen something so violent, so calculated, that I struggle to believe you were ever, as you said, "happy with your lot".'

Jean's eyes flashed dangerously and England reminded himself to tread carefully. 'Would you have come? Willingly, had I asked?'

England considered him, weighed the choice of truth in his mind. 'No. We would not have.' Not in the way Jean wanted, anyhow.

Jean nodded, slowly, and looked down at his hands now clasped upon the table, skin dry from repeated washing. Carer's hands. 'Then, it appears that the situation we find ourselves in was unavoidable.'

A silence fell between them for a moment and England watched Jean think, trying to get a read on the man. What would he do, were England in this position? How would he play this game with the pieces he had left? England wasn't comforted by the conclusions he was reaching.

Suddenly Jean signed and leant into his chair, staring out of the window. It had started to rain; light mist dusted the plastic. 'Your story doesn't make sense. Were you hoping I wouldn't realise?'

England regarded him carefully. 'Which part?'

Jean flicked an eye to him, before returning to the view beyond the window. 'My grandfather murdered Francis, and then he was born again. I have seen his birth certificate myself.' A beat of silence. 'But this time, Francis changed from an old man, who didn't know a thing about his previous life, to a young man who suddenly did.'

England worried the gap left by his missing tooth with his tongue, feeling the beginnings of its replacement.

Jean looked back at him. 'I imagine that you shan't tell me the truth, were I to ask. But,' he sighed, 'there is something there. Something I'm missing.'

Jean moved out of his chair and stood over England, looking down. 'I imagine I'll find out soon enough.'

Reviving from death was never a painless experience.

France came to consciousness in a burst, once off but now on; hollow and numb and heavy all warped into one fuggy feeling, his heart sporadically changing beat as it tried to settle into a rhythm. He had enough time to take a small, rasping breath in before woodenly flipping himself over in time to empty the stale contents of his stomach onto the floor, rather than himself. The bile was thick and cold, and France was disgusted at it, at himself, at how he felt. Like lead.

He had just enough energy to hold himself there on his side until he was done before shuffling to the side and resting on his back, panting short gasps that scratched his lungs.

His limbs tingled as blood began moving sluggishly through them once again and he began to recognise feeling cold, bones frozen and lifeless. Where was he? He took another breath in and his chest ached at the action, reminding him.

Ah yes, that.

He blinked his eyes open. He was in what looked to be a washroom of some kind, although it was too dark to make out much detail. Communal showers, and a door outlined in light. The ground felt cold and hard- he was on tiles of some kind, but his skin was too numb and it felt as though he were feeling everything through cotton, understanding just a faint impression of sensation.

With great effort, France brought a shaky hand to clumsily touch his chest, willing some sensation into his limbs. He tried the other arm, moving it up and down, and then his legs, shuffling them from side to side and awkwardly bumping his ankle against the ground. Slowly, the tingling grew in intensity, sending shooting pains bolting through his arms and legs, and he began to shake violently, unable to control himself as his body warmed. His heart beat thudded in his chest and France turned on his other side to curl into himself, bringing his knees up to try and rub at his legs, hands cumbersome and unwieldy.

His skin was bare. Was he wet? He potentially was, once, still: his hair was clumped and stuck to his neck whenever he moved his head. Potentially he'd been cleaned by someone.

Suddenly, France became aware of the sound of someone approaching and stilled, shifting his weight slowly up on an elbow and pressing his toes to the floor in preparation to move. The door to the room swang open, illuminating a tall sturdy looking silhouette. 'The fuck-?!'

France lunged towards the shape, all too conscious that he was very much not physically ready for this but keenly aware of the danger of recapture. The element of surprise worked in his favour, the figure gave a cry and stumbled back in shock, clearly not expecting to find anything alive and France grabbed hold of a leg, pulling with all of his strength.

The man went down with a dull thud, head cracking against the hard floor and France just managed to avoid a boot to the face as the man kicked out, trying to get him off. France heaved his way up the other man, clinging to his clothing for purchase and forcing his deadened limbs to move. Level with his chest, he hoisted himself up on his knees and tried to grab for the soft flesh of the man's throat.

This action was blocked, the man's left arm coming up to grab for France's hair and he was tugged, off balance, to the side with a surprised yelp. 'Jesus, what the fuck! What the fuck, get off me what the fu-'

The man's right arm pushed into France's chest and he gasped, a cry of agony choking in his throat as pain exploded around the tender area, vision greying and a white noise filling his ears. Distantly, he saw the man he was fighting move to get on top of him and he waited, unmoving and gasping with effect whilst the man positioned himself to straddle him. Once he was in a good position, France kicked up, landing a hit on his crotch.

His own leg exploded as the man gave a wheezing cry, sensations angrily buzzing as nerve endings remembered what pain was but he ignored it all, rolling away from the other man and then up to pin the man down, curling hands around his throat and squeezing hard. The man choked and his eyes bulged, white with fear and pain he clutched at France's arms to try and pry him away but France brought up a knee to press on the left arm and it went slack, weakly slapping the floor. France kept pressing, moving to angle himself better to give more downwards force and resist the remaining right hand which clawed nails into his skin, drawing blood.

After a few moments the slapping diminished to a twitch before stopping altogether, the only sound remaining in the room being France's own ragged breathing. He stayed there for longer than was necessary, just to be sure that the man stayed down, before slumping down on top of the dead man, all fight gone as the adrenaline left him, feeling weak and fevered.

He was dimly aware he was crying, tears dampening the shirt beneath his eyes, but he couldn't have stopped even if he had tried. He felt utterly exhausted, spent entirely and he lacked the energy to unclench his hands from where they now rested, bunched in the man's torn shirt. Eventually, he managed to wrangle his breathing under control enough to sit up. Looking down, he could see that the man was probably around his late thirties; a name sprung to mind and France catalogued it to memory to think about later, when he didn't have any pressing concerns.

Gingerly, he lifted himself off, focusing on one limb at a time, and stretched himself out fully, feeling the stiff pull of his muscles as he tested his range of motion before hissing in discomfort at the residual soreness. There were no warm duvets and friendly body for his revival.

He stood up fully and took a moment to breathe, feeling himself settle within his body, within his lands, and align to everything that he was. Everything was fine, France was fine: the banks were healthy, his people contented, politics could be better in general but the stocks were looking stable today, tumbling ceaselessly through his head at the thought of them. In regards to his physical location, France knew himself to be somewhere in Parc naturel régional du Perche, a national park halfway between the area around Luçon, where he remembered being, and Paris, presumably their destination.

Speaking of they, there was also a distinct thrum of another nation within his territory and the feeling rested in his chest with a familiar, ancient itch: England.

He was close.

And oh? There were two more of them, also nearby; further away but not too far.

France looked at the man by his feet, avoiding the engorged tongue protruding from a blotched purple face, and observed his clothes. He didn't know where his own things were, (or rather, England's things), so he decided to make do with what he could find, hurriedly undressing his attacker and taking his clothes for their warmth. The shoes were too small but this was no matter; he pocketed the man's socks to wear later, deciding to go barefoot for now.

As he worked, he took a look around. He could see that the room he was now in was a toilet, cubicles lining one grubby wall and high up, misted-glass windows. He must be in a wash building of some kind. There was no one else there, but that didn't mean that someone hadn't heard the scuffle and was coming, or would eventually want to investigate the disappearance of their unfortunate colleague.

It was growing dark outside, dusk falling.

During the course of stripping him, France came across a phone in an inside pocket, a burner. He held it in astonishment, not daring to believe his luck. With buttons and a small screen, it needed no pin code, and as he pushed the call button with shocked fingers it came to life, beeping cheerily.

France thanked his lucky stars, praying to whatever ethereal being that might have ever existed, and called London.

Wales wasn't having a particularly good day. That morning he'd got a call from a rather fearful sounding North, who had informed him that England had been filmed dying at some motel in Fouras and the clip was being played everywhere. That, and no one had seen hide nor hair of either him or France at all, and now neither North nor Scotland knew where to go next.

The last he'd heard from them was that they were heading to the motel where England was shot to see if they could pick up any leads there as a last resort. Maybe someone had seen how and where he and France had left, or could at least tell them a bit more information. Then, if that came to nothing, they -or at the very least North- were going to come home and regroup. Wales, meanwhile, had been calming down stressed MPs, swiftly diverting questions from curious nations, and letting the Queen know that there was a slight problem, but not to worry everything was being handled perfectly fine.

Having only recently having got off the phone with the very frazzled Prime Minister, Wales, desperately craving some form of break, ambled into the flat's small kitchen and flicked on the kettle, extracting his favourite mug from the dish rack to towel it dry. He glanced up at the clock sat precariously on top of a cupboard, still not hung back up from the 'New Year's Eve' incident involving Australia a few years ago.

Half 7pm.

It was late. He should probably give North or Scotland a call in a bit and see how they were getting on. The fluttering of worry eating at Wales' stomach none too gently reminded him of its presence and he bit his lip, mind replaying everything he knew about each of his brothers' last known locations as if by doing so he'd spot something that he'd previously missed. Both this and the bottomless worry had been constant companions for the last two days and, no matter what he did, were refusing to go away.

Cursing his luck at being the most feeling one in the family, he went through the automatic process of making his tea before wending his way back to the sitting room where his laptop sat open on the coffee table, glaring at him ominously.

He had just sat down and woken it when the house phone rang.

At first, he ignored it; very few people these days who knew him called the house phone without calling his mobile first and so he assumed it to be a cold caller, leaving it to ring itself silent.

When it rang again however, an old-fashioned electronic jingle that grated on his patience, he rose and crossed over to where it rested on the side cupboard, regarding it suspiciously before answering, 'Arthur Kirkland's residence, Rhys speaking.'

'Wales?'

'France?!' Wales balked, relief flooding through him, 'France, is that you; Jesus J Christ, where the fuck are you two? Have you seen what's been happening in the news? Where's England?'

He heard a pained moan from the other end and he hesitated, suddenly anxious. 'France… France, are you alright? What's going on?'

'Please, do not yell. My head…I may not have much time to explain, but we're in Parc naturel régional du Perche, there's an old lorry drivers' stop just before the main entrance that goes a little way into the forest. If you drive as if you're going North-East to Bellême on the D938 there's a turning, no signage anymore though so keep a look out.'

Wales blinked. '…What?'

He heard France tut in irritation, 'Parc naturel régional du Perche, in a small campsite for drivers wanting an overnight stop. It's in the park but to get there you go down a turn off beforehand, go North-East to Bellême on the D938. That's where we are; can you remember that address?'

Wales cradled the phone to his ear with a shoulder, grabbing for a pen and paper nearby and jotting the directions down, 'Got it.'

He heard France sigh in relief. 'Good. We're in a bit of trouble.' Wales huffed but forced himself to keep silent. 'A rather large America style "code red", if you will. It seems that a human figured out somewhat of what we are and played us into a trap.'

Wales inhaled sharply through his teeth, making swift unhappy connections. 'Alright…'

'The last I knew, England was tied up; I managed to escape by, well, dying, but I'll likely be found before too long.'

Wales thought quickly of what he knew of France's geography, calculated how long it would take Scotland to turn around and head there.

'That's not the only problem, though' France continued, voice sounding weak, 'We're very much outnumbered and England is due for a Reset; we can't leave his body with this man. His name is Jean Barbier, should the worst happen. He plans, or, he did when I was alive- he planned to take us both to the government. Demonstrate us, I suppose. If we don't go through with it, he apparently has-'

'Video footage of England being shot?' Wales supplied, angry.

There was a beat of silence. 'I dread asking how you know that; I can guess. He also has my medical history, blood records; that sort of thing. He was planning on using both- his goal is to draw attention to us, even if he isn't believed. An act of vengeance, perhaps.'

Wales swore colourfully under his breath. Even if this human wasn't believed by France's government, or even if the British government stepped in to aid in the cover up, his story would be believed by many.

There were always rumours, always people seeing something they shouldn't have or hearing something they shouldn't have, but these were all isolated things. The internet made this information shareable, dangerously so, but with the small number of slip ups per year things were under control. This, however, would be a gold mine for anyone looking for more proof of their conspiracy theory. It very likely wouldn't end up with the outing of nation-kind, but it would be a big mess that the UK government was going to have to work at fixing; a national reputation sullied on a global scale. Already things were tense between their government and the French because of this.

Wales felt a stress headache immediately start working its way into being behind his eyes.

France had been patiently silent but now spoke up, breaking Wale's brainstorming. 'This man is very determined. I fear we're going to have to get rid of everything, completely.'

Wales understood his implication perfectly. 'Agreed. Like you both explained in Kent, if he's waited this long already he'll be happy to wait for a better time, if need be.'

France hmm'd in agreement.

'The good news is that Scotland and North are nearby looking for you both. I'll call them to turn around, give them the directions. If you can survive for long enough you may be alright.'

'Tell them to be careful' France warned. 'England and I believe that we are all likely due for a Reset, it has been a turbulent few centuries and a lot has changed.'

Wales considered this, trying to remember his own last human life. It had been a long while. 'Will do. Look after yourself, alright? Try to hang on.'

France chuckled drily. 'I have very little choice to do anything else.'

AN:

Wait? What's this? Heroes has updated again after less than three years?

I know guys, I'm shocked too.

A few notes for this update:

*Patrick is Ireland's human name. In public, I imagine that nations would use their human names so as to not, you know, sound crazy.

1) A caravan: Apparently, there are so many different words for these things, as well as their alternative counterparts, and each country uses them differently to refer to something else. For me, as someone from the UK, a caravan is a mobile home on wheels that attaches to the back of a car and can be pitched up anywhere and taken down again just as easily. I have gone caravanning all of my life, and these beautiful annoyances hold a special place in my heart. Terrible when you're stuck behind one driving down a country lane, though.

2) A motorhome: For me, this is a drivable caravan. It is a caravan / car/ tuck love child and is bigger. No hitching or fastening to things, these puppies are ready to drive and pitch as an all-in-one wonder. I've never holidayed in/ driven one of these, but they seem to me to be very freeing.

Lastly from me, I do want to say, in all seriousness, that I was completely blown away by the response I got from updating this story. I honestly didn't expect such support and to read all of the lovely comments made me happier than I have words to describe.

To all the people I have not answered already personally; thank you. I read every single comment I get and it never ceases to astound me to learn what wonderful and considerate followers this story has. I do hope this chapter did all of your hopes and expectations justice, this one is for all of you.

Love you all as always, and until next time.

Heroes