Um, hi, I'm Matt.

I respond to Matthew Williams, Mathieu, or Mattie, but if you saw me, you'd probably call me by my brother's name, Alfred Jones. We're near-identical twins, and what with Al having the personality of a Labrador Retriever, he's popular and well-known, whereas I doubt anyone at school besides him and a few of my fellow outcast friends knows that he has a twin.

I'm just about invisible to my peers, actually, and most of the time I don't mind. I lived with my dad in Quebec until I was 14, and I've never really warmed up to America – far too loud, too fast, too in-your-face. I simply float along and tune out the noise, and the world and I are happy to ignore each other.

But there've been many times when I wish that people would just listen up.

Like now.

"Um, guys…?" I try, for the sixth time. No such luck; the two boys sitting in the secluded window seat in the back of the library blab away.

I stand there helplessly, hugging the third Harry Potter to my chest. We're far out of sight of the librarian, lost in the maze of floor-to-ceilling bookshelves. As this small corner with a wide window seat overlooking the forest can only be reached by squeezing behind a shelf that looks nothing like what a shelf concealing a secret passage would look like, I'd assumed that I was the only one who knew about it. See, our library got a grant from some famous alumnus with a middle initial, and so it makes up almost half of our school's floor space. It's chock-full of nooks, crannies, and secluded little spots like this one. I come here to skip or just read, and I had assumed that the window seat's existence was known only to me. It's a bit of a rude awakening.

"But Francis, I might not have a chance at mi Lovinito any other way!" the dark-haired one beseeches. His green eyes are fastened to the other's baby blues, huge and imploring. "Pretty pretty please? With drunk Arthur Kirkland on top?"

Arthur Kirkland is our student body president, imported from England and seen as everything from a dreamboat to a bitch to both at the same time.

"Tempting, but non, non," the blonde replies, smiling down at his friend's head on his shoulder. "He must come to you; zat is ze true way of l'amour. We shall assign your love to chase you, and so you shall win him over, oui?"

I know who they are, of course. Francis Bonnefoy, my second or third cousin (although he's never acknowledged it) and the biggest manwhore this side of California, and Antonio Carriedo, the soccer star from Spain who's after one of the Vargas twins. They're both fantastically good-looking, and (so I've heard from Alfred, who is still a virgin but apparently knows these things) fantastic in bed as well. Therefore, they make up two-thirds of the reigning trio of heartbreakers, which means the other should be around here somewh–

"What're you doing here, kid?"

Speak of the devil. Uh, no pun intended. (You know, cause his eyes are red and – forget it.) I freeze – I don't know why, but I feel like I'm guilty of something – and turn to face the last member of the self-dubbed Bad Touch Trio. Long and lean, white-haired, red eyes that are more surprised than angry – Gilbert Beilschmidt, the local badass, narcissism walking and second only to Francis in sluttiness.

…He saw me? People rarely do – anyone else in the school would've brushed right by.

"I-I didn't know anyone else knew about this place," I explain at the same time that he clarifies. I rush into my excuse before he can go on. "I-I-I'm sorry, I'll l-l-leave if you want, I j-just wanted to ask you guys to–"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down." Gilbert holds up a hand, a disturbingly calculating look beginning to grow in his eyes. "Yo, Francis, Toni, I got the goods." He shifts by me and drops a student directory onto the plush seat. (New gangster currency? I think yes.) "And you–" he crooks a finger at me "–get over here."

I blink a few times, and then take a page from the Vargas' books and try to slink away. No such luck – I choke slightly as the back of my t-shirt is grabbed. "W-w-what do you want?" I squeak. "I d-don't want any t-trouble-"

"Sit," orders the albino. I comply automatically, dropping to the ground. "On the seat, dummkopf. Raised in a barn?" I meekly obey, perching uncomfortably on the edge.

Francis and Antonio are looking at me with mild surprise. "Alfred?" Antonio asks.

"Matthew Williams," I mumble. I was in three of your classes freshman year, two of them sophomore, four junior, and this year's lunch and history. I don't blame him, though. It's not like he's the first. Or second. Or thirty-eighth.

Gilbert blinks at his friend. "Dude, he's nothing like Alfred. He's got blonder hair and purple eyes and he's not blabbing about how cool he is."

"Oh, okay," smiles Antonio. He's clueless but nice, and that's all you really need to know about him.

"Anyway," Gilbert goes on, in a worryingly businesslike tone, "you–" he pokes my chest with his index finger "–are our first assassin."

Oh, maple, I'm getting involved in something illegal. I DON'T WANT TO BE IN THE MAFIA, I DON'T WANT TO BE IN THE MAFIA–

"Gilbert," says Francis patiently, "you have to stop doing that. He looks like a scared rabbit." Gee, thanks. "Mathieu," the blonde goes on, draping an arm across my shoulder and ignoring my squeak of surprise, "mon ami Gilbert is referring to squirt guns."

"I-I-I'm going to kill people with a super soaker?"

"If you like. I prefer water pistols. So much more class." Gilbert's red eyes glow with excitement. S-s-scary…

Francis tches. "Mathieu, calm down, you're starting to hyperventilate. Gilbo dear, please stop scaring the frosh. It's shameful." He shakes his head in haughty indignation at the disgrace of it all.

"I'm a s-s-senior," I mumble, fully expecting to simply be talked over.

Instead, Gilbert snorts. "You look fourteen, bro scout. Eat yo red meats. I say Hillshire, you say farm! FARM!"

I blink and shrink back into the corner of the window seat, wrapping my arms around the throw pillow and surprised that I'm slightly tempted to giggle. "Beaver?"

"GO DIEGO GO!" Gilbert punches me in the shoulder for no apparent reason. "ANYWAY, to business," he continues. "Matthew Williams, is there anyone you've ever particularly wanted to shoot with a rifle?"

"Mitt Romney?" I reply without thinking.

He lets out some sort of cackle. I smile unsurely. "Nah, mate, at this school."

Oh. "I-i-is this c-conversation b-being recorded?" I squeeze my throw pillow uncomfortably. It's small and velvet and has a picture of a horse attacking a football player with a volcano in the background. I have no idea where it came from, but it's currently my best friend, so I hug it like it's my job.

Gilbert snickers. I wasn't joking. "But seriously, answer the question." He shoves the student directory at me. "Have some inspiration, there's gotta be someone in there whose chalk outline would look great on your floor–"

"Roderich Edelstein," I interrupt. I don't even have to look.

See, Roderich… He's never done anything to me in particular, but he pisses me off. He pisses just about everybody off. He's that snobby rich kid who's always giving you a look like you're something nasty a dog did on his manicured front lawn, and if there's one thing New Hampshire can't stand, it's an aristocrat. He has a plethora of nemesises and a wider circle of those who merely dislike him (with the exception of one violent oddball of a girl who is inexplicably in love with him) but nobody does anything beyond Halloween pranks and such because his daddy's in charge of all their parents' jobs. I am already starting to look forward to this.

Gilbert clearly agrees, because he grins that manical grin again and flips to my name in the book. "Excellent choice," he purrs as he scribbles in a kindergartenesque print, SHOOTING: RODERICH EDELSTEIN. He then flicks to the E's and writes next to dear old Roddy's name, SHOT BY: MATTHEW WILLIAMS.

Well, shit, there goes any chance of passing this off on Al.

"Kesesesese~ there's something I'll be watching," the albino smirks. Was that what he calls a laugh? I gulp.

"Gilly," Francis interrupts, "can you pleeeease put Arthur Kirkland on mine?" He takes his friend's hand, and rolls onto his back to put his head in Gilbert's lap and give him a hopeful look that I'm pretty sure Dreamworks!PussInBoots has patented. It's a wonder that Gilbert doesn't see the malicious gleam in his eyes that clearly smacks of heartbreaking – and yet Francis has been chasing after Arthur's pants for years and the blonde Brit has always resisted. I don't suppose this time will be any different.

Gilbert melts at his friend's puppy impression. (He likes cute things, I realize with surprise, remembering the yellow bird that I've occasionally seen nested in his hair.) "Okay, okay, But I ain't paying your hospital bill." He obligingly scrawls the name of the prickly sex bomb next to Francis's school picture, which the Frenchy somehow managed to smoulder in. "And you can molest him all you like."

Thus begins the tedious business of selecting names.

I found out later that Gilbert wrote a quick randomization program for most of the assignments. (What, you thought Gilbert wasn't a nerd? Please, his name's GILBERT, that's almost as bad as Augustus or Horace or something.) He only brought up self-assigning some of the names for a bit of extra fun. But I didn't know that when I was glancing nervously at my watch and wondering exactly how long they planned to stay here.

"So Toni, you're going to get chased by Lovi–"

"Ooh, excellent!"

"–and Arthur is after Francis."

"Oh, you know he is!"

"And coming after me will be Yao Wang."

"Gilbert, h-h-he's out of the country."

Red eyes widen in pseudo innocence. "How could I have known? It was done randomly. And Alfred will be chasing Im Yong Soo. And Yong Soo will be chasing…Alfred."

"T-t-that can't be allowed!"

He just laughs.

Antonio sits up curiously. "Gilberto, how are you going to tell people about this? Nobody knows except us, right?"

"Easy one," Gilbert grins. "Yo, Matt, gimme your phone." He grabs it out of my hoodie pocket without waiting for permission, slides it open, and taps out two messages.

To: Katherine Watson
From: XXX-XXX-XXXX
hey its sara from gramma's fone guess wat gilbert's starting a big game of assassins lol sounds fun im in hbu?

To: Sara Steel
From: XXX-XXX-XXXX
hey its katherine from gramma's phone guess what gilbert's starting a big game of assassins lol sounds fun im in hbu?

Great, he sent it to the head cheerleaders. Wonderful.

He hands me back my phone. "It's not like their parents haven't taught them all to play. Consider that bitch done."

"Oh! Gilberto, can your brother chase Feliciano Vargas and vice versa?"

"Duh, they have WAY too much UST for anyone's comfort. Francis, you got any requests?"

"Mm, that one girl from Africa, Michelle. Her dad is insanely protective; if I say it's for school he might let me into the house."

"Who are YOU going to be chasing with a squirt gun, Gilberto?"

"Uh–"

BEEEEEEEP!

"Oh look, there's the bell, gotta fly, see you later!" Gilbert bolts from his seat, grabbing my wrist on the way out and ignoring the protests of Francis and Antonio. We navigate the maze of bookshelves at a run, and sprint past the front desk, earning a deathglare from Miss Mao. (Miss Mao, by the way, is universally known as Miss Me-ow, due to her marvelously sexy, just-out-of-college stripper body, complete with these huge…y-you know… A-anyway, I'm only telling you this because if you said 'Miss Mao', nobody would have a clue who you were talking about. I don't think anyone but me knows her real name. Not even the other teachers.) When we're in the hall, Gilbert slows to a walk – well, a strut; Gilbert doesn't just walk – and lets go of my wrist.

"W-w-what the hell?" I snap at him. Only it comes out as more of a meek whimper. Close enough.

He grins fiendishly. "Now, now, couldn't let them try to steal my Idea, could they?"

OH SHIT. That was an Idea. Capitalized. That was a CAPITALIZED IDEA. I gulp nervously, slowly beginning to realize that I'm fucked. "What was your idea?"

"I," he beams, "am assigning myself Katuysha Braginski."

"…"

Gilbert plows straight through a group of giggling frosh girls. I wince and whisper-shout a 'sorry' in their direction; they probably wouldn't have heard me even if they hadn't been squealing over the 'senior sex bomb'. "Some applause or rapturous praise is in order, I think."

"Gilbert–"

"Think about it! I'll have an excuse to sneak into her house! ESPECIALLY right before she's changing for bed! Those psychos she shares blood with haven't let me anywhere near her, but now…!" He waves his hands animatedly, accidentally(?) hitting Roderich Edelstein in the face. Roderich's fangirl tries to hit Gilbert in the head with a frying pan, but some poor sophomore walks right in front of the weapon at exactly the wrong time. He turns around and punches Roderich in the face, probably because he wants to punch the douchebag and use misunderstanding as his excuse, and soon it's all-out war. Gilbert doesn't notice, and continues walking. Er, strutting. "And dayum, are those some huge–"

"G-G-Gilbert, that's my f-f-friend y-you're talking about!"

"Really?" His eyes light up. "GREAT! So you can get me in, past her son-of-a-bitch brother?"

"W-w-what's wrong with Ivan?" I choose to ignore the request.

Suddenly those red eyes seem much more cold than gleeful. Shit, wrong thing to say.

"I hate Russia," growls Gilbert. "I hate that entire goddamned continent."

I blink. "Russia's on two continents."

He gives me a look that shoots me straight into a flashback.

I am sitting in the movie theater, eleven years old and alone, eyes trained on the screen. An attractive black girl with a scornful expression stands with her friends. They watch a group of laughing jocks pass by. It is the first day after winter vacation. She curls her lip and makes a sarcastic comment involving their species as they walk by. Although the scene is soon forgotten, the image itself sticks in my mind forever.

I have found Gilbert's celebrity look-alike and it is Taylor McKessie.

ANYWAY.

Gilbert gives me his Taylor McKessie look. "Uh, no, Russia IS a continent."

…What?

"Gil, there's only seven continents."

"Well, yeah. Russia, Prussia, America, the Atlantic Ocean, Japan, Santa's workshop, and the moon." He rolls his eyes. "Didn't you take sixth-grade geography?"

"Gilbert, those aren't continents." Of this I am quite sure.

"Prove it."

I'm floored. "W-w-w-well – uh – CHINA! Where's China in there, hmm?"

"China is on the moon. Duh."

I stare at him dubiously, searching his face for any sign of joking. Nothing.

He stares back, completely straight-faced, before abruptly bursting into laughter. "Kesesesese~ hahaha, Birdie, you're a cute kid, you know that?"

…Birdie? I don't know whether to be annoyed or amused, and settle with rolling my eyes. Dealing with Gilbert seems like dealing with a nicer, more intelligent Alfred (who would have been dead serious about Russia). "Sure, Gilbert."

He just laughs more. "You're pretty awesome, Matthew Williams," he decides. "But not as awesome as me."

I roll my eyes again, but I'm smiling. "Yeah, yeah." We've reached the door, and I lift my hand and wave as we separate – me to my precious pickup, him to his…is that the Batmobile? "Goodbye, Gilbert Beilschmidt."

"Hasta la vista, Birdie," he shouts back.

It isn't until I'm halfway home that I realize that that was the longest conversation I've ever had.

A/N: GAY PASSES FOR EVERYONE *throws paper at screen*

sorry for excessive cursing if it bothers you. If it doesn't, sorry in advance for the times when it does. I read somewhere that Canada curses the most out of all primarily English-speaking countries, and acted accordingly.

um, it does bug me when authors promise that the next chapter will be better, but srsly. the actual game is starting and that'll last about the rest of the fic (it's looking like 9 chapters total right now), and there is spamano and a smattering of fruk, and roddy and katuysha feature and and and

review and receive