Shout-outs: Hurr we go.~

callous-enigma - Hey, hey! I wasn't that bad, meanie! ... Okay, I am/was, but, but, you forgive me, right? I know you do, so now sense in asking, bwuahaha~ And no, you have not, so I really appreciate you telling me that now. And I'm REALLY thinking it's compliment since, well, you don't seem to really like a lot of things (. no offense intended), so yeah, happy RAN is happy! (Don't remind me, I really want to revive them... and one day, WE WILL. I SWEAR IT. WE WILL.) Now, now, try to control yourself, especially because your big line's coming up, "oh master of sarcasm". Yes, this is in this chapter, so have fun. P.S. You just hate anime girls in general. Maybe even real life ones. HATER.

Readers-Section - Yes, yes, so do I! I mean, you can just tell Arthur wants to be all over him. /evil laugh And no worries about it getting better, because I hope it will. I'm hoping the next one amuses you too; it was actually a lot of fun writing it... or at least, that's what I recall when I was writing it. xD Also, the crime scene thing, I had to take a step in that direction; this IS a crime fic and I don't want it all around them in a daily life, although obviously that's unavoidable. But yeah, here you go, more crime-ness and... Francis/Arthur-ness! Also, I never did reply to your review to my work, Tea and Rain, so thanks for that! I really love when people take some time to review, and I thank you very much for your compliments. They always inspire me to keep writing~

XxCapturetheLightxX - Ahaha, no problemo, I understand life can get a busy. (But if you ever abandon me again, I will feed you to a smex-starved Francis). As to what happened to Arthur, well, this next chapter is going to reveal that. And... wow, you are a violent fan of mine. I LIKE YOU. XD But yeah, honestly though, there is a purpose for her personality, and clues will be revealed throughout, though very subtly. VERY SUBTLY. And yes, of course, that is what FrUK is about, is it not? Gentleman. And a pervert. Yeeeep... that about sums it up. ... Yup. I love them, really. And nooo, you can get one! Just try harder and apply everywhere? I work at Wal-Mart for Pete's sake, it's not exactly a glory job, though. XDD

fantasyAge - No problemo, I'm overdue this chapter, so... I'm probably worse. And of course, I do this to make sure reviewers know I appreciate them... and to you, I scold you. WORK ON A MORE NORMAL ONE, DANG YOU! Now in regards to this chapter, I do apologize. ): However, it continues on to this chapter below, and I cut it there for the sake of seeing Arthur's PoV, because the next scenes will be most efficient in conveying the message through his eyes. And ahaha, that's good, I'll be stalking your profile every now and again, then. And for the Spanish... I'll try but not promising anything. Probably be more comfortable with just the normal English and you people can imagine it in your heads, haha.

Reviewer - I know, totally right? I'd probably be even grumpier than he is; I'm grumpy enough as it is. Really gives you something to laugh and think about: life sucks, but not as much as Arthur's does, ya know? And haha yes, I had to add some little interaction there; I do like Alfred and Arthur together... but as parent and son, not lovers, sorry to all USUK fans out there. Dx I especially love rebel!Alfred, so this is what happens. And yes, though if that was me, I'd be pining all over Francis, /evil laugh. Oh c'mon, who can resist his French sexiness? I'm sure as hell that I cannot, for sure, lawl.

Fan - Thanks, yeah! Because zombies are just awesome, ya know? Had to make a reference to him in this one too. And of course not, FrUK is NEVER bad. Anyone who says otherwise should answer to Mr. Kumajiro, with his machine guns. Yeah, I went there. /

Now bow before the new chapter, weaklings!

The images were much too vivid for him to take in. Too much, it was too much.

Overwhelming.

Seeing the bodies carved and mutilated on the floor had immediately displaced him into a trip down memory lane, a trip of which he would have never willingly taken. The blood was spattered on his face, on his hands, on his uniform, sticky and oozing as though it was coming out of him rather than the decapitated man in front of him. He saw it there on him again; he could feel the slimy, trickling fingers of the crimson liquid crawling down his cheeks, although he hadn't so much as touched the bodies that laid defaced on the floor, their faces and expressions visible for all to see. There was something missing, something missing, but he couldn't place his finger on it. But of course, he couldn't, for that was when the screaming began.

It started off as a low-pitch noise, a humming in the back of his head that could have been dismissed as a bird singing. However, the longer he looked at the bodies, defiled and so close to his feet, it grew louder and louder, until it matched a siren's decibel. The shrieks echoed in his skull, screaming, tearing every single nerve in his mind, and it was not long before his own ears were bleeding. It was the sound of a seashell on the ear; flowing liquid, but he knew that this time, the liquid had been discharged from his own body. The screaming intensified, and he knew his skull was cracking; the loud, breaking sounds were becoming more and more audible. And yet, the screaming worsened, sending a gush of water out of his ears, where it licked at his pinna and down his neck, tickling and sarcastically soothing. He tried – oh, god, how he tried – to reach up and wipe it away, to tell himself it was all a dream, but he could not. The wailing monster in his mind was successful, squeezing his brain in its alien grasp, causing a spurt of blood to escape his ears, soaking his already bloodstained uniform.

He could not wipe it, for if he did, it would do no good. His hands were covered in a dark red, viscous fluid, barely visible in the dim light, but he so yearned to. He wanted to scream, to yell out in agony in sync with the screaming voice in his head; the warm, trickling thing was disgusting. It felt as though his own brain was oozing out from his very eardrums, trickling onto the floor with steady drip-drop sounds. He could only stare at the bodies, all of whom stared back, unblinking, and their mouths opened, then. They were grinning, those bastard things, mocking that they could move while he could not, so frozen in place by the invisible force of his fear. The pool that lay close to him gurgled in delight, and he heard his own breath hitch; he couldn't escape, not when he could not see, not when he could not hear… not when he could not move. He would be swallowed by the abyss, taken to hell to be the devil's advocate. And still yet, his own body would not recover, could not do so. He afforded a quick glance to his hands, the pores of now which were visible, and he could only stare in horror as the blood escaped in little spurts, ironical little springs of his life force dripping down his fingers and seducing them to come join them on the floor.

A bubble of fear, of pressure, rose up in his chest, and he wobbled; he was going to fall and drown in the blood, and join the corpses whose gleeful eyes stared at him in hungry delight. He would go and be desecrated with them. His mouth opened, to scream, to cry for help, but no such luck.

He would die.

As the bodies waited impatiently, they twitched now, desiring his presence with them. He tried to shake his head, but his mind had already been turned to mush by the alien creature that now inhabited it; no, no… no.

Then all went black.

His mind, completely annihilated, could not register the feel of the leather glove against his eyes, but an outer sense knew it was there. Arthur didn't know what, couldn't tell up from down, but the hand, so familiarly placed, caused his muscles to relax. He found no more support from his legs, and he leaned backwards against the soft comfort of another body, wishing he could curve more into the warmth, uncaring. He could hear a bubbling sound from behind him, but his ears, still sprouting blood, refused to comprehend them. It was a mumbled sound; it was not his language. But he had a sinking feeling that even if he did, he would not be able to reply; the fear of the blood drooling from his mouth as well was too much. Was it not enough from his ears and hands?

There was a jostling sound, and he felt himself yanked backwards softly; he did not resist. There was nothing in him left to resist; his willpower to fight back had been so thoroughly crushed and defeated by the wailing banshee. Luckily enough, it had spared his nerves and spinal control; his legs bent and retracted and straightened repeatedly. It was almost mechanical, the way his knees controlled themselves, for he knew his own had been shattered; it took almost all he had not to collapse.

They were walking, him and… what- or who- ever it was. Walking, walking and walking, and as they did, the ringing in his ears slowly subsided, but it would not go down without a fight. It wailed and shrieked, as though it was aware of its own demise. The volume decreased gradually, but now his mind throbbed to scream another question; when would they stop walking? His legs shivered, unbalanced, and it felt as though they had been trudging about for an hour. He could not take much more of this. Mind and body were much too exhausted for any more movement, any more resistance, any more strain, any more… anything.

As though hearing his thoughts, bright light filtered through the leather glove – he had enough sense to tell that much now – and the hand around his eyes was retracted. He almost hissed at the sudden influx of the luminance as his irises struggled to adjust, but again, his muscles would not cooperate. That made him doubly surprised that his body – he had regained the knowledge of its existence – stood straight once the hold had been relinquished. However, the sudden absence made him yearn for it more; did it not understand that he was bleeding to death?

And then, there was a touch against his forehead – and the smell of roses – and he blinked. The shrieking stopped, his body was dry, and he was met with the retreating figure of Francis Bonnefoy.

… Now, what in the bloody hell just happened?

Arthur blinked again, rubbing his head as though he'd just been struck there. Groaning, he looked around, unnerved at the huge blank that had been erected in his mind. He was so concentrated on unlocking it that he hadn't noticed that a certain, black-haired, Chinese policeman was now peering over him, head tilted in both confusion and curiosity.

"Are you alright, aru?"

"Urgh…" he groaned, unaware of the other's proximity due to the disconcerting feeling of blankness in his head. "What happened?"

"Search me, aru." As if to prove his point, he shrugged. "You went in there with your buddy and disappeared for about five minutes. Next thing I knew, he was dragging you out of there, aru."

"What?" A wave of panic and confusion engulfed him; what had he missed? And in the first place, why had he missed what he did? Without meaning to, he stumbled backwards, one arm luckily finding stability on the hood of a police car. He shut his eyes, now straining harder against the invisible binds that shadowed his memories. It was like ramming against a brick wall – painful and useless. He could feel his willpower fade, feeling his consciousness slip with it; for some reason, he felt exhausted beyond belief.

But why…? Suddenly, he felt a frown cross his features, a sense of stubbornness emanating from within him. Like hell he was going to lose to this… whatever this was!

Gritting his teeth and sucking in a deep breath, Arthur mustered as much inner strength as he could, exploding the force against the equally stubborn barrier. He smirked as he felt it crack, slowly at first, before the pieces spread and fell unevenly in his mind. There, behind all the debris, was the information he was looking for, the information that was both anticlimactic and frankly, embarrassing.

There, he saw it, if not in the form a blurry montage. He had entered the room first, as his job as a bodyguard because good lord, that frog could not be trusted. If anything, he had half-expected the man to go fondle a female's corpse, which he knew was most definitely not above him. But when he had arrived first, surveying the scene, he had taken one good look at the blood pools that lay everywhere before he completely blacked out; even after winning his war against the mental block, he found that his senses had been completely overwhelmed from that point on. It was no wonder why he had been so exhausted.

But when in the hell had the frog come in? If anything, that part had irritated him more than the blemished recollections. He swore, if he had so much as touched him inappropriately, there was going to be hell and more to pay. One did not mess with a highly cranky and pissed-off Brit. Nobody.

Contemplating on ways that the frog could have defiled him (and possibly what concentration and type of acid he could afford to boil all over his body now that he was certain that he was now tainted; he also made a mental note to grab the strongest, most acidic one he could and replace the other's drink with it), Arthur had lost note of his surroundings, if temporarily. Engrossed as he was, he hadn't noticed the other's arrival until said taller blonde (how the pervert had grown to be so tall was beyond him) was towering over him, a teasing smile on his face – in other words, a sneer in Arthur terms.

Would it be a crime to bash his skull in? As long as it wasn't murder, that wasn't too bad, right?

"And just what, in the bloody hell do you think you're doing? Get your mingy face away from me!" He exclaimed, aiming for a punch at the other's face (why the hell it was still so smug, he did not know; actually, he wasn't quite sure he wanted to know). Said punch was easily caught in the other's palm, an action that surprised him greatly. Not only had there been sufficient force behind it, but he'd given the other basically no warning. His eyes narrowed, but then suspicious thoughts were cast away when the other pulled him closer, still staring… still sneering.

Oh, how he wanted to bash that face in.

"Oh, 'allo. Welcome back, mon britannique," Francis said, a hint of emotion playing across his eyes. It looked something akin to curiosity, but then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. Had he just imagined it?

Arthur grit his teeth, annoyed that his senses had been so slowed down to a point that he hadn't noticed their proximity (again) until the other's breath hit him on the face, and he viciously yanked his hand away and took a few steps backward, a movement that was limited due to the fact that the police car was still behind him. Irritated beyond all belief, he sent the car a glaring look.

Damn car.

"I said, get away from me, wanker! And I don't ever recall leaving. Did the heat just so happen to fry your brains… or what was left of it anyway?" he asked sarcastically.

Francis tilted his head; there was definitely an odd look of inquisitiveness behind his luminous eyes. He thought perhaps the other's slow mind was trying to formulate a response; he wouldn't put it past him to have the analytical skills of a goat. However, when he was met with a totally irrelevant reply, it further enhanced his theory of having been somehow desecrated by the damn frog, and he couldn't help but have the strongest desire to run to the nearest cliff and jump off of it.

"Oh hon, hon, hon, hon." Francis stepped forward, locking him against the hood of the car, but thankfully, made no more movements to invade his personal space (honestly, did that term even exist in the bastard's vocabulary?). "Intéressante."

"What is, frog?"

"So you don't remember, oui?" The other frowned, looking down at him with scrutinizing eyes. As he was about to ask, he waved his hand, dismissing the matter. "So, back to 'ze matter at 'and." Arthur grimaced; what, did this man have some sort of split personality? He shook his head; no, if he tried to figure that out, he had a feeling he would implode trying to do so. So he kept his mouth shut, staring at the other and waiting for him to continue with rapt attention. The policemen around them also had the same keen interest, and even Yao Wang had stopped staring at him like he was about to keel over (what was that about?)

"Oui, so 'ze bodies are two females and un homme. At first, it looked like a typical murder scene, what wiz' 'ze bloody everywhere." (Arthur didn't miss the quick glance that was thrown his way, and an eyebrow rose in consternation. Honestly, did he have something on his face?) "'Owever, I tried not to move 'ze bodies too much when I checked, but 'zey all have a common theme. All of 'zem had been stabbed in 'ze 'eart once, and all of 'zeir eyes 'ave been gouged out." He blanched, as though something sour had been put into his mouth, while Arthur visibly paled just trying to imagine such a scenario, before his mind was once again sent reeling. How had he missed that crucial fact? And just why, in the name of the Queen, could he not remember? "'Zey were 'zen moved – I guess, from 'ze way 'zere are blood tracks as though 'zey 'ad been dragged – to form… un Y inversé. Ah… 'ow do you call 'eet… un… peace sign? 'Eet looked like 'ze eyes were gouged out –" again, Arthur cringed – "after 'zey 'ad been stabbed. And… 'zat is all."

"Wow… aru," Yao said, the first to break the awkward and horrified silence that had descended upon them all. "That is… unbelievable, aru. Where there any clues, aru?"

The Frenchman shook his head and shrugged his shoulders in that typical "French" manner; a motion too relaxed for such a scenario, in Arthur's head. "Non. 'Eet 'ees clean, aside from 'ze bodies, of course. I tried, but no such luck. Je suis désolé."

Yao looked downcast, his shoulders shrugged down as though the weight of the whole incident was upon his shoulders, a fact that Arthur somehow found himself empathizing with. He only knew the pain of what it was like to see something and not be able to do anything about it. His job was much too constricting, and now he was stuck as a mere bodyguard for a frog. Life just couldn't have gotten any sweeter.

There was collective sigh of resignation, and finally, the Briton thought it was about time he speak; why let the frog gain all the attention? "So, what you're saying is, we're dealing with someone who seems prone to violent tendencies." Francis looked up at him, mildly surprised. "Judging by the organs attacked, one can tell a little bit about the killer, especially if he's a predictable psychotic. For example," he began, starting to pace back and forth, his head creased with a frown as he stared at the ground, "the heart. It's a very personal organ, don't you think, both in the literal and metaphoric aspects. Often used in plays with the connotation "broke my heart" and coupled with the fact that the heart is what keeps the body alive, one can assume that perhaps the killer takes this personally… perhaps as a stab to his own heart? As for the eyes, I can't quite guarantee anything yet, but as to the fact that they were gouged out after they had been killed suggests that the killer feels guilt… or wants to play with the bodies. Either way, the safest bet is that this man is violent, and from the looks of this rather sarcastic symbol he's painted, he's bound to strike again."

Arthur looked up after his ramble, surprised that it had suddenly gone so eerily quiet. Everyone, including Francis and Yao, were staring at him with their mouths agape (from this distance, he was pretty certain he could throw something in the frog's mouth and choke him; now that would have made his day). "… And… that is all," he continued, unsure. Had he said something wrong?

Francis was the first to recover – but of course he was, being probably too stupid to realize the situated, but he digressed – by whistling. "My, my, mon ami, 'ow impressive." Somehow, coming from him, it sounded more like an insult, degrading, and Arthur resisted the urge to throw something at his head (what was this now, the fifth urge?). He hadn't been particularly helpful, so he did not, in any way, deserve to insult him! "And you figured all 'zis out from what I said?" Arthur nodded cautiously, wary. "Ah hon, hon, hon, I guess your short size masks your big brain, oui?"

… Did he just say what he thought he said?

That frog did not just go there.

"And your gigantic stature barely even has enough room for your libido, let alone something like a brain," he retorted, not caring about the glances that were being cast his way by the bemused Francis (oh, how he wanted to wipe that smirk off his face) and the bewildered policemen.

Francis balked, raising both hands out in a surrender position. "Calm down, Arthur! 'Eet was not meant to insult; you are si sensibles! But do not 'esitate!" His arms were now open, as though waiting for an embrace. "Release all your tensions on bruzzer' Francis, non? I will show you all you need to know abou-"

"Git!" Another insult bubbled to his lips, but it burst as soon as a strange sound entered into hearing range. Had there been more noise than the gaping silence surrounding them, he was quite sure that he wouldn't have been able to hear it, but he had. Eyes widening in surprise, forgetting their petty little argument (but he was sure to pick it up later), he frowned as he deciphered brushing sounds from close-by. It sounded like someone wiping a piece of cloth against a rough, concrete wall. It was nothing more than a low humming sound, nothing too discernible, and he would have easily let it go too, had it not then, been for the movement that caught his attention from the corner of his eye.

There, just barely visible by the corner of the post office in a vain attempt at spying (he could guess this much, judging by the way the man's – he could only assume such from the stature – angle was tilted in a way that the square of his body was hidden, but that his neck was craned around the wall as he no doubt strained to hear) was a stranger clad in black. A black, long-sleeved shirt and what was visible of a pair of black trousers were topped off by a black ski mask that covered the majority of his face. As Arthur looked over at him, studying him, there was a second of eye contact. A jolt of electricity shocked him into waking up, and as though struck by the same force, the man's eyes widened, before he turned on his heel and ran off.

As though by instinct, he felt a surge of adrenaline race through him, and before he had placed too much thought on what he was doing, he was also running off in a similar direction, gun held in his hand as he yelled, "Oi! Freeze!" He ignored a confused Francis, who was no doubt wondering who he was talking to; he could care less right now as he could be dealing with the potential killer right then and there.

Finally, he thought, finally, a chance to redeem myself and show those bastards! Deep in thoughts of concealed pride, he just barely noticed the footsteps trailing behind him, footsteps that belonged to his charge.

Eyes trained on the escapee, Arthur watched as the other ducked into a nearby alleyway, dark and concealed that somehow brought a wave of both nausea and nostalgia all at once. Oh, how absolutely ecstatic he was to undergo that situation again; he only hoped this time that he wouldn't have guts and blood spit all over him like it had last time. If it was going to happen, well, he wasn't certain what to say about his sanity… and Francis' face. There was no doubt it would come out of this unscathed.

He followed suit, turning sharply into the dark recesses of the alleyway, with no end in sight. He stopped for a moment; it was much too like the maze that was the Louisiana alleyway system; there was no tell-tale sure-fire way that he would be able to make his way out, let alone find his way back. His mind calculated the possibilities; he could turn back now and be fine with it, and enlist the help of the officials to capture the culprit, or he could go ahead while he could still see the culprit and possibly end up wandering the maze for who-knew-how-long.

He snorted. The choice was clear.

More footsteps pounded on the floor, his more erratic and rapid than the other's. He could hear the person's hitched breath in time with his, though it was clear to him which of them was faster. Left, right, another right and a straight path ahead for what looked to be a few meters, and Arthur found the man pressed against a wall, eyes widened through the mask as attempted to catch his breath. Hands on his knees for a second, the blonde extended both of his arms outward, their palms training the gun on the unknown person's chest. Eyes narrowing, Arthur took a few tentative steps forward; there was no telling what the alien would do. He knew, after all, that when humans were faced with inevitable defeat with no way around, they would turn savage at any point and claw their way out, no matter what it took. And if this one fit that category, Arthur was also ready to do what it took – and that was, shoot.

"Alright, hands up where I can see them, mate," the blonde ordered. The other did so gradually, shivering, eyes black under the shadows of the wall. "Keep them up, now." He then sauntered forward, gun still raised and cocked. His footsteps were muted in the silent halls, but echoed sharply around them. As he walked forward, he released one hold on the gun, that hand manoeuvring towards his belt where the handcuffs hung. He was extremely careful not to let his eyes wander while doing so, keeping his calm head and meticulous nature on high alert until he was just literally a few metres away from the other.

And then, there was blinding pain against his skull.

A sound of pain escaped his lips as Arthur felt himself bludgeoned, then thrown against the wall with such force that the cats that had hidden themselves in nearby trashcans yowled and ran. The gun clattered a few inches from his limp hand, and he found himself half-sitting, half-standing uncomfortably as a tight force exploded from his chest; someone was lifting him up by his shirt. Blinking profusely and trying to clear his mind of the maddening pain, he forced his eyes to narrow and focus, to understand the situation.

He hated it when he didn't know something.

Through the throbbing from his back, he could make out the shape of a human figure. Green eyes were made out, but not in the same lustre as his own were. Close to shoulder-length, brown hair waved from atop the scalp, framing a face that was half-hidden in the darkness, but not so hidden that he could not make out the sneer on the man's face, an expression contorted into perverted sadism.

"Nice one, Toris," came a voice from his left, and from the corner of his eye (he couldn't bloody well move, dammit), saw the one in the mask move into his line of sight, removing the mask on his face and revealing a shorter male with blonde hair and purple eyes that were almost the colour of black in the dim light. "He almost got me there."

"Shut up, Raivis," "Toris" replied, before smacking Arthur against the wall one more time, this time lifting him off of the floor. The Briton gasped for the air that was so selfishly pried away from him, little by little. "You're so fucking careless. I ought to kill you next, you cheeky little retard." The man looked away for a second to cast the other an expression that must have only been so obscenely terrifying that it had the seemingly younger male backing a few steps backward.

There was a cough then, this time from the right; what the hell, there were three of them? Straining his neck to get a good view – and, predictably, slammed against the wall – of the person, Arthur found himself facing the tallest of the trio, whose only visible feature he could see was his brown hair that was just a few shades lighter than the one who was lifting (lifting, his arse), and glasses. This one exuded an aura of silence; whereas the other two were predictably easy to figure out, this one seemed to have his personality all covered up – an inconvenient thing for Arthur. "Toris, we don't fight among ourselves. Take care of that." He nodded towards Arthur.

"Eduard." Toris snorted, looking as though he was about to ignore the order, but nodded in reply and turned back to his "victim". Arthur glared at him with an expression of unfathomable hatred and disgust, but this seemed to be hilarious to the other, who started laughing. "Oh, look at this. The little prissy goody-two-shoes thinks he can play the game."

"At least I can think, you pompous twat," he squeezed out, against his better judgment. Almost immediately he bit his tongue; that… might not have been the right time to say such a thing, but this man was just so infuriatingly stupid. He regretted it all the more when he was lifted off the wall, and slammed right back, and whatever air was left in his lungs was forced out. He began to see stars as his breathing became more and more laboured.

Dammit, he was not going to die here.

"Smart-ass." There was no warning aside from the derogatory word, before a punch connected on his face. There was no break after, when again another one came, this time striking his right cheek, and because his arms were hanging uselessly on the side, all he could – all he would – do was keep his cries of pain silent, whilst glaring at the other in defiance. There was no bloody way in hell this bastard was going to crack him… though, at this rate, he would fade into unconsciousness soon. He felt the sticky, warm liquid flow in front of his face, and he knew then, before he winced instinctively, that his nose had been broken. The blackness was becoming a more dominant part of his vision, and it was only his stubborn mind that refused to succumb to it. Who knew what they would do if he sank into the world of dreams?

Still, he couldn't do much from his current situation, and his vision was failing, his reflexes slowing as the "Toris" character studied him, raising his fist once more. However, just before the blow struck – sending a highly uncomfortable ringing sound in his ears – a flash of blue caught his attention. It was unmistakeable, it was that arrogant shade of blue that he'd seen just a few moments ago.

Francis.

He opened his mouth and started to call for him – if that was even remotely possible with the lack of air in his lungs – but stopped short. What was he doing? There was no way that the frog would ever let him live it down after this, and on the off-chance that he did, Arthur could never forgive himself. Gritting his teeth, he battled with the internal turmoil; dammit, why was it so hard to choose? Pros and cons flicked through his mind, but in the end, he decided – albeit grudgingly (emphasis on the grudgingly) – that he would rather not have his hellish life come to an abrupt halt… at least, not like this. With a weakening mind then, he turned his neck a bit more, just in time to make eye contact with stunning blue ones. He didn't need to scream; their wordless communication was enough, and unless the frog was bloody blind as well as stupid, there was no way to miss the situation he was in.

But he thought wrong.

Francis had been concealed enough in the darkness, having hidden himself just in time when he no doubt heard the commotion. However, once eye contact was made, he did the most unbelievable thing that even Arthur thought he couldn't have been capable of: he ran away. Yes, the male merely looked like he was stifling laughter, before he winked at the Briton, offering him a petty wave, then tiptoeing out of sight, until he was camouflaged in the darkness.

He couldn't believe it. Whatever ounce of respect he had for him (as unlikely as that already was) went down the drain. An ultimate sense of betrayal flooded him, opening a gate that he thought had already been buried underneath this immense physical strain: anger. Hot, boiling fury at the person who had been his charge, someone whom he thought would have at least an ounce of dignity in him… but he thought wrong. Francis was always the one who proved him wrong. Always. And he had enough of it; this betrayal and abandonment was the last straw.

Adrenaline rushing through his veins, Arthur extended his brain's control towards his legs, before making them kick the other man as strongly possible in the torso. Surprised and unexpecting of resistance, Toris grunted, releasing Arthur from the firm hold. The other two, flabbergasted, moved just a second too late, for Arthur had already made a beeline for his gun. Once the two saw this, they hesitated, but Toris seemed to be the exception. The madman, crazed from the pain and sudden strike, lunged out at him. He was, of course, dizzy from the lack of oxygen, and his legs didn't quite cooperate with him except to inform him that a strong hand had hold of him. Slightly panicked, Arthur looked down at the spot to find Toris sprawled on the ground, clutching where he had been struck, but one hand wrapped around his ankle. At the same time, he glanced at the two others who were now recovering from their shock, inching towards him.

There was no other choice.

Deft fingers pulled on the cold hard metal, aimed low. A shot echoed in the secluded space, amplified by the walls, followed quickly by a roar of pain. The hold on his leg was immediately released, a fact that he quickly took advantage of. Only a short glance was spared towards the other, who clutched his shoulder as red seeped through it, before he darted past the opening, blindly in any direction as long as he got away. Despite the haze of panic, he knew that he had no chance against the three of them (he admitted bitterly; there went his damned chance at redemption).

Panting, heart racing, he felt himself on the verge of a heart attack when, upon rounding a corner, he felt a hand around his mouth. A muffled cry escaped his lips (was this give-the-policeman a heart attack day?) as he was pulled towards the unknown body, and his hand twisted as he attempted to get the gun pointed at this next alien. However, before he could do so, a cutting voice that grated on his nerves spoke, a voice he was most definitely not welcoming at that moment.

"Relax, relax, mon britannique," Francis began, releasing his hold on the other and eyes drifting warily to the gun that was now halfway pointed at him. "Will you put 'zat down?"

The rage that had been easily replaced by survival instinct roared back with resurrected life. Instead of doing what he had asked, the gun was now fully pointed at him, aimed dead center at his forehead. At this distance, he knew that there was no way he could miss as his mouth twisted into a spiteful grimace. "I should bloody well shoot you after what you did back there, you fucking twit! What in the bloody hell was that about?"

Francis, still eyeing the piece warily, broke out into a smile that had Arthur taking one step forward, so that the gun was now touching his forehead. "Well… ah, you see, you are my bodyguard, are you not? I thought to myself, if 'e cannot take care of 'imself 'ere, what use would you be as one?" He shrugged. "So, I decided to let you fight for yourself. Comprendre?"

"No, I do not understand!" Rage consumed his mind, fury overcame his senses, and so, practical sense and reason were thrown out the window. He glared at the other, stepping forward and pressing the cold metal on the other's forehead, causing him to take a step backwards. "I could have been killed, and all you care about is a test? You shallow frog, I should kill you right now and end my misery!"

The other showed no visible reaction, except perhaps to shrug again, his face still a smile. He could not, for the love of him, understand how someone could be so calm in the face of an armed and loaded firearm, but he chalked it up to the man's sheer idiocy. "You won't kill me, mon ami, you know why?" Arthur held his breath, waiting for some outrageous reason. "Because you love me, 'zat 'ees why."

Eyebrow twitching, the Briton cocked his gun, his face closer to Francis than he would have ever dreamed it would be. Emerald eyes stared into blue pools, his filled with hatred and loathing now – no amount of time would ever repair the flimsy trust and self-respect that had been thrown away – against calmer, laughing ones. "I'll tell you why I won't kill you right now, frog," he hissed, resisting the urge (oh, the wonderful urge) to pull the trigger and let it all be done. "I won't do it because I have a job to do. I won't do it because I don't want to risk hurting my family again. I won't do it because it would be one fucking waste of a bullet. Bloody git, don't be so full of yourself."

Although he was hard-pressed to do it, Arthur retracted his gun, stowing it in his holster, before turning heel and moving away from Francis. He would honestly rather get lost than be anywhere within ten metres of him right now.

It almost seemed like totally different time when Arthur arrived back in the confines of his abode. But he had just barely arrived when he had to leave again; there was just time to change into a more casual set of clothes before his next appointment. Glancing at the clock, he sighed in relief as he found himself on time, if not, a tad early. The business with the frog had ended quickly, to which he was thankful; he wasn't quite certain how much more of him he could take that day.

Or week. Or month, even. But of course, there were pure delusions and fantasies. He had a – he shuddered to think it – job to do, whether he liked it or not. And as he had so plainly stated to the man's gutless face, he would stick around for various reasons. He would just have to grin and bear it.

Or, just bear it. Grinning would be too painful and just asking for too much.

Plopping into the car seat, as the Sonata purred to life, Arthur found himself replaying the events of the day, as much as he did not want to. Despite his irritation at the mind block that still prevented him from accessing all parts of the information, the one thing that truly stood out was the feeling of complete shock, hurt and betrayal at Francis. He didn't know why it bothered him so much, only that it did, and that in itself was enough for him to pull his hair out (thankfully, his hands were rather busy on the steering wheel). After a few minutes of pondering, he had let it go; there would be no sense in going insane for someone like him. Plus, on that rare occasion, he had glimpsed at the bright side to all this: he would see no more of Francis until the day after, which was all well. He wasn't sure just how stable his mind was at that moment.

A few minutes' drive was all it took before he found himself in front of a densely populated school of Alfred's. Tonight was the parent-teacher meetings, and the teachers had repeatedly called for him to come attend to discuss his son's "behaviour". He rolled his eyes; he could already very well guess, but it seemed as though he had no other choice under Michelle's glaring eyes. With a sigh, he shut the car off, adjusting his tie, and walking into the school and making his way to the second floor.

He had agreed to meet Alfred somewhere there – room 204, if he recalled correctly – and they would have a quick talk with three of his six teachers. How wonderfully exciting. Three teachers spouting nonsense about his son all night long; he would sooner spend more time with Franci- No, scratch that. He would rather gouge his eyes out, actually.

… How hilariously ironic.

Climbing up the stairs and opening the doors to the hallway, Arthur found a mess of blonde hair just a few feet away, which he thought was strange. If he recalled, room 204 was on the other side of the corridor, so why was Alfred here? He had probably forgotten their appointment time; Alfred had never been the smartest bulb in the box. He then walked forward, waving his arm at the other as he slowly approached, calling, "Oi, Alfred!"

When he was close enough to the boy, he turned, and Arthur found himself staring into a pair of lavender eyes, a gentle contrast to Alfred's sky blue ones. Confused, he stared at the other, who stared back, until he finally decided to break the silence. "… Alfred?" Unless his son had somehow gotten into the coloured contacts phase, he highly doubted this was him… despite the obscenely similar appearance. In fact, they could have been twins, if not for the subtle difference in hairstyle (one of which he had so meticulously cut; Alfred hadn't been too impressed) and eye colour. He frowned at the other, who merely offered him an innocent expression that reminded him painfully of Alfred before they had moved.

"J-je suis désolé. M-mon nom n'est p-pas A-Alfred," he paused, hesitating, before clearing his throat. "I… I am Matthieu."

Arthur could only offer him a blank stare, before… "Who?"

A/N: Yes, here we are, a week late.~ I've decided that my updates will be on Fridays, especially since I'm looking at my schedule in advance, and usually, I'd have more muse on Fridays since you know, end of the week and all that. But as I promised, here's the chapter. Now for mah awesome possum comments.

... So what do you guys think? I had Arthur's PoV here, and yes, he actually swears towards the end; I mean come on, wouldn't you? If you think about it, I'd probably have slapped him myself; Arthur obviously has more self-control than I do... And and, don't you feel bad for him, being all traumatized like that? Dx Probably doesn't help being attacked right after, but you know me, sadistic towards one of my fave characters!

Also, I was planning on starting another Angels/Demons-type fic, but I was going to do a SpainxEngland pairing, because I sort of want to dedicate it to my friend. Buuut, would this be any good? I just want opinions; I know this is not a popular pairing so I'm wondering if any of you would read it or think you'd know anyone who would. xD

Also, first one with no translations, haha. Be proud!

Also, my favourite line... the last line. 'Nuff said.

See ya next week, peoplez~