Poland was aware of four things.
His hands were restrained.
He was alone.
It was dark.
And his back hurt like hell.
Other than that, he didn't know what was going on, let alone where he was.
Pain, of course, clouded his mind… If he were entirely human, would he be dead?
He frowned. "Some phoenix I am," he grunted, peering around. His pupils, surely, were already stretched to epic proportions, but all he could make out was a few vague shapes.
Poland tried to scoot around. So his legs were bound too. Add that to the enormous list of things he knew, which were now five. Great. Multiplying like bunnies, as usual.
Eventually, he fell asleep.
Lithuania fidgeted. He bled from shallow cuts—twelve of them, if his memory served him—and was awkwardly bound. At least Russia was undoing the ties.
Russia ruffled his hair. "You did better than last time, da?"
Toris went limp and pretended to be asleep.
What did you do?
Russia pressed his lips together in a thin line. "I am tired of you leaving blood on my coat, da?" he mumbled, scooping up Lithuania anyway.
Germany was messed up, Italy knew.
The bloodstains on his shirts could attest to that.
He had been doing the laundry, which was odd in itself, as Ludwig was almost always the one who cleaned.
Italy didn't particularly mind; he had pranced around the house and scooped up his own clothes, some of Japan's, and several of Germany's. "Ve, they'll be so happy when the see their clothes clean when they come back," he chirped to himself.
"I wonder why Japan's clothes are here… Ve, he hasn't been here since the day he was making weird noises with Taiwan!"
But he kept working like an industrious little bird.
Up until he found it.
"There's pasta sauce on Germany's shirt, ve!"
He licked it and immediately wondered why he did so. "That's not sauce, ve!"