He could only feel the pain…the pain of his people coursing through him, ripping him apart as they cried in anguish. Alfred tried to find them in the darkness, to comfort them, to ask them why they were in such distress. He swung his hands out in all directions, but came into contact with nothing more than the all-consuming darkness. "Where are you?" he cried. "I can't see you! Please, tell me where you are so I can help you!"
Too late…a raspy voice suddenly whispered in his ear. You are too late…
"No!" Alfred screamed, sitting up in the bed and reaching out to the voice. A wet washcloth went unnoticed as it suddenly flew across the bed, having done nothing to earn such harsh treatment. He suddenly blinked, closing his mouth.
The bright sunshine tried to peek around pulled curtains on a window to his right, but still managed to illuminate the room. Slowly he took in his surroundings. He was in a very large bed, and directly across from him was a long mahogany dresser with a dressing mirror over it. Several boxes and bottles arranged in a tasteful manner sat on top of it. To the right of the dresser was a plush armchair in a dark blue, while a set of double doors to the left probably led to a closet full of clothes. Turning his head even farther, he saw a nightstand on either side of the bed, lamps on each, but on his left was an alarm clock and several thick looking books.
After taking a slow but detailed account of the room, Alfred's breathing and heart rate had finally slowed down to an almost normal rate. He blinked several times, and then realized as he was sitting there his chest was getting cold. Looking down, Alfred made a very unmanly eep! "Why am I naked?!" he cried out loud. However, as he began to cover himself with the dark brown comforter, he noticed his stomach wrapped quite neatly with gauze and ace bandages. He touched the area gingerly, wincing as he felt a small stab of pain in doing so.
He was about to get out from under the covers when he noticed the wet cloth at the end of the bed. Obviously he was not the only person here…wherever here was. It was a feminine room, with the taste in furniture and boxes of makeup and jewelry on the dresser. And besides…it was clean. Alfred knew by most of his fellow Nations standards, that those who were male tended to be disgusting slobs in their own personal abodes, unless of course they were nitpickers from birth; Arthur, of course, with Matthew taking after him well in that respect.
Either way, he sidled his way slowly to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over the side. A stab of pain made him pause, gasping, but it wasn't too bad. He could live with it. Throwing the covers behind him, Alfred stood up slowly to his full height, noting that the room swam around him as he swayed back and forth. He closed his eyes, covering them with his hand, until he no longer felt the dizzy spell taking over. Once that was accomplished, he removed his hand and opened his eyes back up, taking several experimental steps towards the door.
He knew he was weak; his body protested the entire journey…all four steps of it. Leaning heavily against the door, Alfred took in several deep gulps of air, steadying himself. As he stood there panting, he saw a small bathroom to his right, a closet straight in front of him, and another hallway to his immediate left. Deciding quickly, he began dragging his feet along with him as he used the wall for support, working his way slowly down the hallway. Not surprisingly he found himself in a well decorated room; simple, minimalist. There was a kitchen on his right, a small island with cabinets above it separating itself from the rest of the living and dining rooms, which were combined into one. The small table next to him, which he used to lean on next, was only large enough for two people, the exact amount of chairs sitting at it.
Beyond the table and chairs there was a small sitting area, a plush sofa with an attached chaise as well as another comfortable looking chair, a coffee table, and a larger television with several devices underneath it. A few of the walls had paintings or posters on them, but what caught Alfred's eye was the spectacular view of the lake he could see through the blinds. Since the sun was so bright out today, the blue water sparkled as it washed up onto the beach in the distance. White sailboats drifted lazily on the water in the distance, while the world continued on without them.
Alfred moved his hand from the back of the wooden chair to the oversized stuffed one, taking in the view with a smile. However, it was at that moment that the not so subtle sounds of someone snoring softly drew his attention to the sofa. Turning his head slowly, the first thing he spied was a mop of extremely curly brunette hair on the end closest to him. They were wrapped in a thick white blanket decorated with black curlicues, their back moving up and down in a slow rhythm. He raised an eyebrow, curious, as he gradually tried to walk over to see who exactly this person was.
He made it precisely five steps before the pain in his stomach reminded him that his was not completely well yet. Giving out a cry of distress, Alfred tumbled to the floor, grasping his midsection.
His shout woke the person sleeping on the sofa immediately, jumping up to see what was the matter. With less than half a head turn they saw Alfred, tossed the blanket onto the chaise, and jumped to the floor. "Hey! Hey, are you alright? You shouldn't be up yet!" a woman's voice scolded him in a concerned tone.
He didn't care whether she was angry with him at that moment, or the fact that he was only in his underwear. All he could think of was the pain in his stomach; curling himself into a fetal position, he scrunched his eyes shut and bit his lip, groaning slightly.
"Hey, hey…look at me, alright?" the voice asked him a little more gently. "Just open your eyes."
Alfred cracked an eye open, a face swimming into view. Her eyes, a rich emerald green, peeked out from underneath dark lashes, her even darker curly hair obstructing most of her face as she was bent over him. "It…it hurts," he whispered to her.
A cool hand brushed the side of his face, cradling his head. "I know it does. We'll get you back into bed and you'll feel better in no time, okay?" A thumb began caressing his cheek.
"Okay," he said, his face scrunching up in pain as another wave hit him fully. He grunted, squeezing his eyes shut tight.
He couldn't see it, but he felt her gently turn him and lift his head at the same time, helping him to sit up. The pain did not intensify anymore, thankfully, but it did not lessen. As he sat up, she ducked under his left arm and put her other arm around his back, supporting him as she began to stand one foot at a time. "Good. Just like yesterday, you can do it," she prodded him encouragingly.
Soon enough Alfred pulled himself up, with a lot of help, until he was standing; hunched over, grabbing his stomach, but standing. Step by step he and the woman began to shuffle back to what he now knew was her room. It took several minutes, but they arrived without another incident or stab of pain. She helped Alfred to sit down on the bed, and then swung his legs up onto the bed for him gently as he lay back down, placing his head on the soft pillows. She also covered him up once more with the warm comforter, after having quickly checked his bandages; they were still good, with no bloody leakage. "How are you feeling?" she asked him. "Hold on a moment," she suddenly told him, and leaned forward to kneel on the bed. She brought her hand up to his forehead, leaning her face in close to his.
Alfred felt his face flush, but hoped she hadn't noticed. "What?" he managed to stammer out, closing his eyes as her cool skin melted in his burning skin.
"You're fever is still a bit high," she sighed, removing the cool hand. "Although it has come down considerably since last night."
"Last…night?" Alfred sighed slowly, trying to remember.
The woman sat down on the bed, watching him carefully. "Do you remember what happened at all?"
Alfred thought hard, back to yesterday. Getting off of the plane…his coffee and hamburger…the taxi ride…the couple…and then doubling over in the middle of the sidewalk. "Not much," he lied. "I remember…getting off a plane…a taxi…getting out of the taxi…then…nothing…" he had to pause to take a deep breath, the pain in his abdomen finally starting to abate.
"Oh," she answered, slight disappointment evident in her voice. She sat on the edge of the bed while he lay there catching his breath, an uncomfortable silence beginning to fill the gap between them. "Well," she said after a minute, "I'm glad you're feeling a little better, but it is probably for the best if you don't get up just yet. Wounds like those don't heal overnight," she added.
Alfred blinked, looking out from under his cocooned position to finally take in the woman's appearance. She was wearing dark purple pajama pants and a white tank top, her muscular yet lean arms crossing to rest her hands in her lap. He had seen her mess of extremely dark brown curly hair, and her bright emerald green eyes. Now he also noticed the shadows under those piercing eyes, the dryness of the skin on her hands from washing them too often. "You took care of me," he stated matter-of-factly.
The woman blushed a brilliant crimson across the arches of her cheeks. She turned her head away so he couldn't see. "Well, yes…you were in really bad shape last night, and I just couldn't leave you…"
"What happened?" he asked in a very quiet voice.
"I found you…on my way home from work. I was going to call 911, but you didn't want me to. Anyone would have done it," she added with a shrug.
Not anyone, Alfred wanted to say, but knew better than to. "Thank you," he said, trying to emphasize to her just how grateful he was.
The woman turned back towards him, smiling. "You are very welcome…um…"
"Alfred," he quickly supplied.
"Alfred. It's a nice name," she told him sincerely.
"Thanks! What's your name?"
However, far away on the northeastern coast of the United States of America, an anxious Canada was pacing in his room, Kumajirou watching him from atop the bed. "Where is he?" Matthew murmured quietly to himself, checking his watch yet again, probably for the sixth time in twenty minutes. "His plane should have landed by now."
"Alfred be here soon," the miniature polar bear added to the conversation, trying to cheer his master up.
"I hope you're right," he replied. All he could think of was his conversation with Alfred on Wednesday, before he left for his trip. I should have stopped him…I shouldn't have let him go… Matthew's chest constricted as he was wracked with pangs of guilt. He shuffled over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it, leaning over and covering his face with his hands. His retro fighter pilot goggles reflected the light from the window, showing an overcast sky. "Alfred, just come back safe, alright?" he whispered in an agonized voice.
Kumajirou stood up and sidled over to the distraught young man, rubbing his wet black nose comfortingly against his arm.
"Now don't push yourself," the woman warned him as she added yet another pillow behind Alfred's back.
"Alright," he answered, scooting his way up to rest on the many pillows she had gathered from around her apartment. Once he was sitting up, resting against the padded mountain, he leaned back to relax against it. At least he could take with her properly now. "Thanks."
"No problem," she said, waving him off. "Just don't try getting up again without my help."
"I won't," he promised her, smiling sheepishly.
"Now, can I get you anything?" she asked him, turning around and sitting on the edge of the bed once more. "Are you hungry? Thirsty? Want to watch some television?" She paused to hear his answer.
Alfred was about to answer when he stopped, mouth hanging open.
"What? Are you feeling alright?" the woman quickly said, concern etched across her face.
"Aren't you curious?" he finally answered her, closing his mouth to speak.
"Curious about what?" she replied.
"You find me in an alley. You bring me to your home. You bandage me up and take care of me. And you don't even want to know anything about me? You aren't even going to ask if I want to call someone?"
"Do you want to?" she asked back, cocking an eyebrow.
"No! I mean…no, that's not the point! Aren't you afraid that I'll hurt you, or rob you, or something like that?"
"Well, not with this you won't," she told him with a laugh, poking him gently in the stomach for extra effect. Alfred grunted, a small pain blossoming momentarily just below his ribcage. "Besides Alfred, you aren't the kind of person who would do something like that."
This time it was Alfred's turn to raise an eyebrow. "And how do you know that?"
"You've thanked me for every little thing I've given you," she began, counting off the reasons on her fingers, "have never pried into any of my business, and have tried to make this situation as easy on me as possible without infringing passed what the normal conditions are for injured people." Suddenly she stood up. "Oh, I almost forgot!" she cried out, smacking herself on her forehead.
"What?" Alfred hastily said, concerned, but she had already run out of the room. He could hear some kind of metallic clanging coming from down the hall, and things moving around, but within a few seconds she ran back into the room holding two hangers with his clothes on it. His uniform was clean, all signs of blood gone, as well as having been ironed until each hem was perfect. His three way belt hung upon it as well, while his leather bomber jacket hung on a separate hanger in her other hand.
"I did my best, but at least all the blood is gone," she told him with a satisfied smile. "Your boots and socks are sitting on the washing machine, but they're all cleaned up too. I didn't really know how to treat leather, but it said online that – hey, what's wrong?" she asked him, lowering the clothes in confusion.
Alfred was crying. The proud superpower, the great United States of America, was crying as he lay weakly in the woman's bed. She had found him, taken him home with her, treated his injuries, and even washed his clothes. She didn't know who he was, or what he could be, yet she did all of that for him without once having asked for anything in return. The tears came harder and faster; he brought his hands up to cover his shame ridden face, hiccupping. He called himself a hero…trying to be brave in the face of danger and adversity, trying to be the nation that all other nations looked up to, to make the world a better place for his brother and sister Nations, to keep the smiles on his twin to the north and his older brothers across the Atlantic.
Who was he to say he was a hero? She had done all of this for him out of the goodness of her heart without asking for anything in return. He knew he had been selfish in his heroism; he had always wanted the acknowledgement of the other Nations and their countries, to make them look at him, to respect him. In truth he couldn't help anyone…let alone himself.
Immediately he felt a weight settle on the left side of the bed right next to him, and a pair of smooth hands pulled him down into a comforting hug. He stiffened, but she did not let him go until he was resting against her shoulder. She rubbed circles onto his back as he sobbed into her tank top, wetting the material with his salty tears. "Shh, just let it out," she told him in a caring voice. Alfred wrapped his arms around her, crying for all the things he wanted to but could never be.
He felt like a toddling Nation again. When he would go running into Arthur's open arms after having a nightmare, to have them soothed away by the rough but gentle voice of his older brother. Matthew, if he was visiting, would come running in to make sure his brother was okay, usually ending up crying to, and giving Arthur double the trouble on his hands. But Arthur would always promise him that his faerie and sprite friends would protect him, and that everything would always look better in the dawning of a new morning.
But it was after dawn, and the day was still grim.
The woman never left his side once. She continued to sit there, to hold Alfred against her as he cried and cried, sobbing for what had been lost and for what had never been. She whispered loving nothings to him, cradling him like a babe, while Alfred wept into her arms. She didn't know why, but something told her deep inside her heart that he was important; that if she failed that something terrible might happen. But what it was that she might fail at…she had no idea.
He…couldn't believe it. He stared at the television screen in shock, unable to comprehend what the news anchors were saying.
"…twelve dead, one in critical condition, and at least thirty other people injured in this horrendous act of violence. At this moment it is unknown if the gunman is dead or alive, considering the range of the shooting across the base. We will continue to update our viewers on this massacre as the day progresses…"
"…once again, for our listeners just tuning in, we are repeating our report of yesterday's shootout at the Ft. Hood army base in Texas, where at this time there are reported to be twelve deaths, one person in critical condition and at least thirty other people or more to be injured. More reports have come in regarding the situation with the gunman; at first it was said that he had committed suicide after these attacks, but our most recent update says that he is also in critical condition but alive. Our station will continuously broadcast this story as we receive more updates…"
"Mon dieu! Arthur, zis is terrible!" France whispered as he watched the television, his eyes glued to the screen.
England sat on one of the chairs in the television lounge, surrounded by dozens of the other Nations as they watched the news unfold on several large television screens placed around the room. He sat forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together in front of his chin as he stared. "I know Francis," he said with tight lips. His dark green eyes flicked over to his right where Canada lay on the sofa, his arms wrapped around his older brother's middle while he buried his face into the Frenchman's chest. Francis stroked Matthew's head, comforting the young Nation. Kumajirou sat on the floor next to him, occasionally lifting his head and watching his master with a sad face.
Less than an hour earlier, Matthew had run out of his room and down the halls like a madman, screaming for Arthur and Francis. Germany and Italy had bumped into him first, but since he was babbling in French, couldn't understand him. They had just left speaking with France and England, so they took the trembling Canada back to them. When Matthew saw his older brothers, he broke down in tears as Francis tried to understand what he was saying.
All he could really make out were "Texas," "shooting," and "Alfred." Even so, those three little words sent the Nations into protect mode. They checked Alfred's room first; not there. Then they checked with the outside security; Alfred hadn't checked in with them since he had left on Wednesday. When Arthur realized this, he practically ran to the communications room with a fire in his eyes, which contained dozens of red phones. Each one had a specific tag on it, which was direct line to the head of each of the countries the Nations represented. Walking passed several rows of long tables he stopped towards the end of the alphabetized phones and grabbed the receiver labeled "United States of America – President Barack Obama, Oval Office, White House."
As he picked it up, a tone sounded on the other end. Almost immediately the voice of the first African American President was heard on the line.
"Alfred? Is that you? Are you alright?" When he heard a strange British voice instead of his hyperactive friend, the President immediately knew something was wrong.
A short while after checking with his FBI and Secret Service, the President gave Arthur the worst news ever: he didn't know where Alfred was. All he knew was that he had taken one of his weekly trips to one of the fifty states. He had called him Thursday morning before he got on his plan, as per usual, but he had never heard from him after that. The President assumed that Alfred was busy, enjoying the sights and eating his hamburgers, and would call once he was on his way back…as per usual. But he hadn't, and no one had seen him; his driver had waited at the local airport to pick him up, but when he didn't get off his plane he tried to find out if he had been on another one. The driver was still checking.
"Bloody hell," Arthur swore, slamming his fists down on the coffee table in front of him. It startled several Nations, but most let him be, knowing how frustrating the situation must be for him.
"I-it's all m-my fault," a hiccupping nation whispered into Francis's shirt. "I-I knew that s-something was w-wrong w-with him. I shouldn't have let him g-go!"
"Mathieu, non. Zis is not your fault whatsoever. Mon petite Alfred would have gone still, yes?"
Poor Matthew. He was blaming himself for Alfred's disappearance. He had seen that something was wrong; if he would have stopped him, if he would have kept him here instead of letting him leave for his trip…then maybe…just maybe…
"Ze FBI and ze Secret Service are doing all zey can to find him right now," Germany told Matthew, as he gripped the top of the sofa tightly. "For now all ve can do is vait."
"Thank you Ludwig," Francis told him gratefully as he looked up at the blonde German.
"We'll help too!" an energetic Italy added. "How about some pasta?"
Ludwig placed a hand on the redhead's shoulder, shaking his head at him. "No, but ve can help. Alfred said he vas going to ze Midvest, right Matthew?"
The blonde Canadian nodded, slowly beginning to extract himself from his older brother's now ruined blue uniform. "Yeah. And he promised me that he would be coming back for today's meeting," he added, using his sleeve as a tissue to wipe his running nose and eyes.
Francis quickly pulled out an embroidered handkerchief and handed it to his younger brother, pulling out another for himself to wipe his blouse off with. "Ma chemise proper," he moaned dramatically.
"Frère désolé," Matthew apologized. "Je peux le laver pour vous."
"You gits! Enough French!" Arthur said, grinding his teeth. Matthew jumped and immediately looked down at his feet while Kumajirou suddenly reared in front of him, baring his teeth at the Englishman.
"Kumajirou! No, stop that!" Matthew admonished him in his quiet voice as he pulled the miniature polar bear back away from the startled England.
"Sorry," Arthur immediately said, slouching back onto the chair. Kumajirou settled down, with Matthew scratching his ear, but kept a beady eye on the green uniformed Nation. "Now…the Midwest. Does anyone know much about it?"
"It's the belt of states that lie around the northern half of the Mississippi River," Matthew eagerly offered. "There's about twelve of them, the northernmost two being Minnesota and Michigan and the southernmost being Arkansas and Tennessee, before you get either too far south or too far west."
"That…is a lot of land to cover," Italy said, starting excited but drooping at the end.
"Too much. We have to narrow it down further," Arthur declared.
"How about this then?" a soft spoken country articulated from behind the group.
Arthur turned around to see Japan walking towards them, a piece of paper in his hand. "What is it?" Arthur said, jumping to his feet.
"The plane itinerary for young America has just come from the White House," the Asian nation stated, handing over the paper as the other Nations crowded eagerly around England. "He is in –"
"Wisconsin!" the Nations of the world finished for him.
