A shot of testosterone, anyone?

Warning: Violent beating scene, threats, dark!America, yeah...

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

A Mess of a Man

Alfred felt his whole world crash down around him when he felt Marge's hand go limp on his cheek and heard her last breath exhaled through her blood-stained lips. He was too shocked to do anything but sob, not caring if the others were around. The fact that he had let his baby girl walk into a death trap and could not save her… he had killed her, was devastating. After about five minutes of trying to pull himself together, he felt the warmth from her hand fade and folded her hands in place on her stomach. Matthew, who had recovered from his grief a bit, moved out of Francis's arms to crawl over to sit at his niece's head. With gentle, albeit trembling fingers, he closed her eyelids and peered up at Alfred. His face was red and splotchy and his eyes were swollen from the tears. "There… you see, Al? She's sleeping now. She's-she's sleeping…" A few more tears ran down his cheeks followed by quiet sobs.

"Come here, cher." Francis said, crawling up to sit next to Matthew and pulling him into a hug again.

Arthur felt his heart ache. He knew what it felt like to lose a child, yes, but… not like this. He ran his fingers soothingly through Alfred's honey-blond hair before deciding to sit next to him. The Briton took his brother's hand in his, and held it to his chest, trying to ward away tears from seeing Alfred in such a broken state. It was just like Alfred's civil war when he was being torn in two, but now—now it was just agony. Then, with alarm, Arthur noticed blood welling up through his sleeve on his shoulder.

"Alfred… your shoulder."

Alfred didn't even glance at it. "I-I know, Igs." He winced as the scar grew larger. "It-it happens when…" He let out another sob and reached up to stroke his daughter's cold cheek. "I love you, baby. I promise you, I won't let the bastard who did this to you get away with it. I'll make him pay. For you. I promise."

Worried, Arthur tugged on Alfred's arm. "A-Alfred…? We must arrange a burial before the rebels find us here. They might be regrouping at this very moment."

"I don't care if they're coming or not." Alfred said coldly, yanking his hand out of Arthur's grip. "I'm gonna give Montie a proper funeral. She deserves at least that."

Arthur was about to say something, but Alfred rose to his feet, slipping back on his gloves and picking his gun up off the ground where he had dropped it earlier. He wiped the blood off his face and made his way over to where Yao was standing, still muttering under his breath as he held Higgins captive. The man had gone silent, but he had the gall to glare at Alfred as he approached. That was, until Alfred aimed his gun at him.

"You," Alfred growled. "Tell me where your camp is so I can kill the bastard who did this to my daughter."

Higgins's eyes were wide, but he shook his head. "No… no I've been forbidden to."

Alfred came within a few feet of the man. He squatted down and glared the man in the eyes, unblinking, the barrel of his handgun pressed threateningly against his chest. "Tell. Me. Or I'll kill you."

"A-Alfred," Arthur quickly got to his feet. "No. They'll hear the shots!"

"Fuck if they hear it!" Alfred snarled. "I don't give a fuck if they track us down or not. At least then I'll be able to plant a bullet in this bastard Gordon's head."

Higgins swallowed and tried to scramble back, but Yao, who had stopped muttering, held him in place. "I-I can't, man! Please, you don't understand! He works for a higher power. He has connections. They'll kill me if they find me and find out I told you! They have eyes everywhere!"

"Don't give me that load of bullshit!" Alfred yelled, pressing the gun with almost bruising force into the man. "I don't give a flying fuck if they kill your sorry ass or not! The fact is that if you don't answer my question it'll be over much sooner for you. Now I suggest you answer unless you want a chest full of lead!"

"Al," Matthew said shakily. "Please don't be so violent…"

"I don't give a damn!" Alfred flashed back, never taking his eyes off the man in front of him. "This man works for the guy who killed my daughter and any person who thinks he's such a hero as to follow him has no reason to live in my opinion!" Alfred's voice lowered dangerously and he said, "Don't push me. I won't feel guilty if I take your life. Not at all."

Everyone was quiet. Higgins began to tremble and sweat. "P-please… please, someone, help!" he began to yell at the top of his lungs. "Help! I'm here! Please, help me! Gordon! I'm here!"

Alfred was about to tell Yao to silence him, but the Chinaman was already on it. He bashed the man on the back of his head with his wok and Higgins immediately seized up and collapsed.

"Is he dead?" Alfred asked, not sure if he wanted it to be true or if he wanted the man to be alive to answer his question.

Yao shook his head. "Méiyǒu, Alfred. I have only knocked him out."

Alfred suddenly felt a hot anger boil up inside of him. "Sonofabitch tried to get us caught. The coward. He doesn't even deserve to be knocked out."

Ivan caught the dangerous undertone in Alfred's voice. "Alfred… you are not to be doing anything hasty, da?"

"Hasty?" Alfred asked with a scoff. "This bastard helped kill my daughter. You think I haven't had enough time to think about what I wanna do to him?"

"Alfred," Arthur said warily. "I know what you're thinking, but it won't solve anything. It would only make Higgins's group angrier with us."

Alfred was silent for a moment, pondering while anger raged inside him. "Unless they don't recognize him."

Alfred gave Yao a look that warned the older nation to move away. He did, taking his wok with him.

Then, everything seemed to spill over. The frustration, the anger, the guilt, the grief, the urge for vengeance. It all seemed to seize Alfred's body and mind and he felt an explosion in his gut. This man was one of them. One of those murderers. And unless he rid his country of this one man here and now, it was just one more man who would oppose him or might kill another one of his states in the end.

Alfred picked up the limp man by the collar of his filthy shirt and drew back his fist, the whole power of his body behind it.

"Al!" Matthew burst out, but the first punch had already fallen.

And it didn't stop. Alfred couldn't. He was blinded by hate—the most powerful human emotion next to love. And he was doing this for someone he loved. So it only made sense.

But he was no human. And as so, he didn't stop. He didn't even think. All he knew was that this fucker had to die and he was much obliged to do it. Dammit, he wished the man could be awake as he did this. He wanted the man to experience what no doubt many other victims of his group had—what his daughter had.

He aimed for the area he never wanted to see again: Higgins's face. Alfred eventually dropped him and proceeded to pound the man's face in with his fists. Blood was splattering on his shirt, neck, and cheeks, his knuckles were surely bruised, and the man was surely dead by now, but Alfred didn't care. All he wanted was for the man to pay, even though he was not awake and probably no longer alive to witness it.

"Al!" Matthew called. "Please, stop!" He was crying again and he looked away, feeling bile rise in his throat. Francis joined him, holding him so that he wouldn't be able to see. Lovino, meanwhile, had coaxed Feliciano back into their tent and quickly followed after him. Sadiq was frozen where he sat, wincing with every blow dealt as if it was himself being struck. Kiku was staring with wide eyes in Alfred's direction, barely breathing. Ludwig was standing with his hand on his gun, which he had retrieved from the ground, while Gilbert had one hand on his shoulder, shaking his head and staring in shock. Ivan stood off to the side, getting the full view of what was happening. He was used to seeing this, yes, but not from Alfred. He wanted to say something, but the words caught in his throat and all he could do was watch as the man's face was totally mangled by Alfred's unyielding fists, a fire in Alfred's eyes he had never seen before.

Alfred did not answer his brother. He kept going. Kept hitting. He was determined to take away something as equally precious from the man as he had taken from his daughter: his identity. Yao eventually backed away, hand on the handle of his wok in case Alfred came after him next. And all the while, Arthur watched this, his gut twisting, his heart pounding, having an out of body experience from seeing Alfred become so suddenly violent. Sure, the man had aided in the killing of his daughter, but no one deserved a death like this. Alfred was no murderer… right? He was just… getting compensation.

Arthur felt his eyes burn. His little Alfred was killing someone, and he was just standing by idly, letting it happen. In all his years, he had never thought that Alfred would ever become a murderer, at least not using his own two hands. And it was scaring the absolute shit out of Arthur, not because he felt like he might be next, but that if he allowed Alfred to continue until he'd had his fill, Alfred would simply not be Alfred anymore. And for all the things Arthur had ever said about wanting Alfred to change, he did not want him to change like this. Never like this.

He would not allow him to become a mindless murderer.

So he took a few cautious steps forward. "A-Alfred…?"

But the American did not respond. His blows seemed to get even harder and come faster, as if Alfred was at his peak, as if he was determined to totally mash the man's face flat.

Then Arthur darted forward, deciding to take the risk no one else was taking and grabbing Alfred on the shoulder.

"Alfred," he pleaded, willing his legs to stop trembling. "Please, stop. He's dead." He was dead a long time ago… Arthur wanted to add, but he could not for the lump that was forming in his throat. When Alfred still did not stop pounding the man's face in, Arthur raised his voice and said, "Alfred, please!"

And that seemed to stop Alfred. The American dropped the man whose face now looked like nothing more than a hollowed skull full of hamburger meat, bits of shattered bone, and blood. There was nothing left. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Even the bone was gone. Arthur felt his stomach lurch when the man's head fell limply back, his neck broken, the head barely hanging on by tendon and skin. But as soon as Alfred had dropped the man who could have been anybody, who was now unidentifiable, he swiveled around in a flash, a mad gleam in his eye. This frightened Arthur to the core, but he received another shock when Alfred drew back his fist and clocked him hard in the nose. Arthur cried out, tears streaming down his cheeks as blood gushed from his nose. He quickly tried to stem the flow with his hands as Francis left Matthew to come running over to pull Arthur away from Alfred safely into his arms.

When there was nothing else to hit, when no one in their right mind would come near Alfred, the American finally caught his breath and came back to his senses. He had felt like the whole time he was beating the man that he was not even himself anymore, not even in his own body. It was scary, but nothing was scarier than looking at the damage he'd done to Higgins, something like a monster would do, and then he looked at his big brother. And that's when his stomach dropped out. He had hit Arthur. He had truly wanted to hurt him. He had never wanted that despite all the things he'd said or did in the past. Alfred was supposed to be the hero, but his temper had gotten the better of him and he even lashed out at someone he cared about, someone who confessed not even eighteen hours ago that he had always wanted the best for him.

But then came the worst realization of all.

Alfred was no hero.

He was a murderer. No better than the man he had just killed and definitely not any better than those rebels or even Gordon.

He felt like he was too dangerous to be around and he also felt… sick.

Alfred examined his bloody hands and his eyes moistened. "Oh… oh, God…"

And that was when he decided he'd rather not hurt anyone anymore. At least not anyone he loved. So, he turned and stepped over Higgins's body. He tried not to look at it, but he felt he had to, like he had to take responsibility for what he'd done. And when he did look at the bloody corpse, Alfred put a hand to his mouth as his stomach heaved.

Alfred faintly heard his name being called as he ran into the trees. By who, he did not know nor did he care. All that he cared about was that he was far enough away not to hurt anyone. And he was too busy throwing up all the food he had in his stomach, thinking with another sickening heave, that the vomit looked similar to the mess of a man he had created, he had left, back at the camp.

Maybe he was just as much a mess on the inside and only now had he realized?

Translations:

Méiyǒu-No

A Word From the Writer: Wow, America cracked. Like, completely. I found I LOVE writing dark!America. Sometimes you just wanna kill a character and kill him good... using America, of course. America=berserk. You all knew it would happen, though. Right?

Btw, I'll be leaving on Tuesday (6/25/13) to go to Iowa for a wedding. Yeah, Iowa, where half my family lives. You know, the boring-ass place where all you do is get lost in cornfields? Yeah, THERE. Anyway, I probably won't be returning for at least twelve days (7/6/13). But I'll be taking my laptop and (unless a semi runs us over on the way *knocks on wood*) I'll be updating, albeit maybe a little haphazardly. Sixteen-hour car trip, here I come!