DRAMA+VIOLENCE=WIN.

Warning: Angst, violence, weapons, FrUK, molestation.

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

Lambs to the Slaughter

Francis was panicking. "That was Matthieu's scream."

He and Arthur were close to the camp, and Francis could not stop the shaking in his hands. Arthur lay beside him, both on their stomachs, his side brushing the Frenchman's in a type of reassurance. Francis was near to tears, though he well knew crying wouldn't help them any now.

"We should have done something," Francis muttered, his voice breaking.

"We didn't know how many men there were," Arthur told him, just like he had been telling Francis for the last hour and a half. But the older man kept saying the same thing over and over again, as if wanting to incapacitate himself with guilt. "We couldn't do anything, Francis."

"Yes, we could have." Tears slipped out now, and Francis was too distraught to wipe them away.

"No, we couldn't," Arthur snapped, shocked at the hardness in his voice. But he couldn't help it; Francis had been pushing him closer to the edge of panic with his constant rambling, and Arthur thought he would go mad. Francis stopped crying and stared at the ground, sniffing. He blinked, and a few more tears fell down to soak the dirt. "Sorry. Francis… you can't keep beating yourself up over this. It isn't your fault. They ambushed us."

"We should have seen them coming," Francis insisted. "We should have been looking back."

Arthur took a deep breath and sighed. "There is no looking back when we want to move forward. It was a common mistake. But we don't have time to feel guilty. We have to find a way to get to that camp and get Matthew out."

Francis swallowed, his throat almost too scratchy to take it. Worry churned within him. "What if, what if they…?"

"Don't think about that," Arthur told him, knowing full well what Francis was thinking. If the Organization employed men with such twisted mindsets as the convicts, then the men who had Matthew could be the same. Arthur covered Francis's hand with his and looked at him. "We will find him before that happens. I didn't when it happened before, but I will find him before those damned men touch him."

Francis looked up at him, his eyes red and watery. "You did find me, Angleterre. And that's all that matters to me." He rested his head on Arthur's shoulder, and the Briton pressed his lips to his forehead.

"We are going to help Matthew now, Francis. And I need you to be strong, all right?" It was weird for Arthur to be telling Francis not to be weak when all of their lives they had wanted just that for the other. "We'll get him back. I promise."

"Tell me you love me." Francis needed to hear it. He needed to hear something happy in the world right now.

Arthur was not caught off guard. He wanted Francis to know that he cared if they happened to die. "I have always loved you, Francis." He was surprised that the words came out firmly and without tremor.

Francis stopped breathing for a second, and Arthur's heart skipped a beat. The Frenchman took a deep breath, what might just be the last lungful of air he'd ever be able to appreciate.

Francis's muscles rippled with anticipation and he was bristling with fury. "Let's kill these bastards."

Gilbert had heard Matthew's scream. It had to be his. But it had been nigh on two hours since he'd heard anything else but the wind and the rustling of the grass.

He had stopped looking for the others and decided that it would be best to keep moving toward the direction in which he had heard the men recede. He figured that if there were still others alive and hiding along with him in the field that they would also do the same. Besides, he was determined to see at least one of his group alive.

He had been crawling as quietly as he could for a half hour (he was being slow for caution) before he could hear men's voices. And none of them were familiar. He paused for a second, trying to decide where the hell he could go from here. He was only one against—well, he knew it was more than one man could handle alone.

He was jolted out of his thoughts as he felt a hand wrap around his ankle.

He remembered not to yell at the last minute, and he turned himself over, trying to see his attacker as he kicked out with his other leg. But the ankle was easily caught. Adrenaline rushed through him.

There were two.

He had gotten too close to the camp and they had been crawling around in the grass, lying in wait for someone to stumble into their trap. How could he have been so stupid?

Before he could flip back over to crawl away, he was being pulled backward. He writhed like a fish, but he could not get away, both pairs of hands locked onto his ankles.

He drew back his fists, ready to fight if need be. But before he could see anyone, one of them let go of his foot and tackled him from the side.

The guy caught him by surprise, and he got a few good punches to the jaw and nose before kneeing him in the stomach. The man above him gasped for breath, and Gilbert took the time to realize that both of his ankles were free.

There was a flicking sound, and the blade of a knife pressed against his neck. They lay there breathing for a second before Yao said, "Gilbert?"

The man lying on top of Gilbert raised himself on his elbows and blinked at him, glasses askew. "Hey… Gilbert, dude, it's you!"

Yao pulled the knife blade away from the Prussian's throat. "Shh, Alfred!"

"Stop being so uptight, man." Alfred said and rolled off of Gilbert.

Gilbert rolled onto his stomach and studied at them both. They looked just as disheveled and anxious as he was. "Is it just you?"

"Yes," Yao answered, slipping the pocketknife back into his coat. "You're the only one we've found so far apart from each other."

"You heard the scream?"

"It was Mattie's," Alfred said with a look of murderous rage. "I'm over feeling bad for these fuckers when I kill them. I don't care how I do it, each and every one of them deserves it. If I have to become a monster to protect what's mine, then I will do it." He looked a Gilbert. "We're going to rescue my brother. You in?"

"Are you kidding?" Gilbert laughed quietly. "You'll need my awesomeness."

"Good," Yao said, leaning in. "Now here's our plan…"

Matthew stared at the flaps of the tent. He had been doing so for hours, he was sure, and yet there had been no movement anywhere near the tent. He could hear low voices outside, but no one came close enough to be coherent to his ears, no one came to see him.

And Sadiq had not come back.

The pain pervading Matthew's whole body seemed obsolete to his worry over the Turk. The men had taken him out to attract whoever else might be hiding in the grass. What had happened? Had Sadiq said anything? Had they found more of them? Had they found bodies?

And was Sadiq… no longer alive? Earlier, he'd heard a little scuffle a distance away from his tent. It sounded like Sadiq, and he had listened keenly. After a few minutes everything went silent. When the men had left the tent, Matthew had never wanted them to return save with Sadiq. Now he wanted nothing more than for the men to return. He knew they probably wouldn't tell him anything, but maybe if he cooperated…

He was going to die. That was it. If Sadiq was gone, he had no one there to help him. And he was already convinced that the others were gone as well. He was alone. Utterly alone. And he would be taken to the capital, set before the Overlord, tortured, and killed. No one would believe he wasn't Alfred. He looked exactly like him—enough for Cuba and others to beat him up over it. And if the Organization claimed that they had captured and killed the personification of America, they would then have the power to do whatever they wanted. Matthew had no doubt that they would take quick advantage of having someone who closely resembled Alfred killed as soon as possible.

"Sadiq," Matthew breathed. He couldn't stop the tears coming to his eyes. "Oh God, Sadiq," They hadn't even had time to be together. Even after only an hour of acknowledging their love for each other, Matthew was still devastated by the loss. It was like losing Carlos all over again. Maybe it was just as well. Maybe this was his punishment for choosing to forget Cuba so easily. By all accounts, he still loved him dearly. If only Alfred had seen that, then they could have gone public with their relationship…

Alfred. He was gone as well. There really was no hope for this country now. Or any of the others. Francis had died just a few days after being returned to them. It wasn't fair that his last days consisted over remembering what had been taken from him. And Matthew had just gotten him back. Francis had died, lived, and died again. It was almost too much for Matthew to take.

He didn't care who saw now. He had lost everything, and he cried for it. For the cruelty of the world. Why did it insist on playing these horrible games with him?

The sun was setting now, and it was getting dark. Matthew cried for what felt like days until his lungs were sore. After that, he resigned himself to laying there and myopically staring at the wall of the tent, thoughtless, expressionless, numb…

And then, finally, footsteps approached his tent. Matthew didn't mind to look as the men stepped in. They didn't deserve a response.

But the men were not offended. They had dealt with captives before, and an unresisting prisoner was a good prisoner. They untied him and stood him up. Matthew stumbled at first when he put weight on his sore knee, but he was determined to walk by himself.

He was led through the camp, others staring, muttering disconcertingly to each other as he walked past. He was forced to sit on the ground, surrounded by a wide circle of men. He all but ignored them, his head down, defeated. How else could he act? Defiant? Angry? His life was already over.

Then Seth came to stand in front of him. When Matthew didn't respond, still staring at the ground, someone behind Matthew stepped up and grabbed hold of his hair. The Canadian grunted as his head was pulled up so that he met eyes with Seth.

"You will watch this."

The man behind him let go of his hair, and Matthew's head dropped back down. He didn't even think about what he had just been told, he was so in despair.

And then there was a commotion beyond the ring of men. Matthew didn't look up, not until he heard a man shout, "Where is Mark? What did you do to him?"

Matthew's head snapped up. "Sadiq?"

The men parted and Sadiq, his arms tied behind him, was shoved into view. When he was pushed into the ring, he stumbled and looked up at Matthew. "Mat—Mark?" Sadiq slapped himself mentally for forgetting their secrecy, but he was so damned glad to see him. He wanted nothing more than to run over and hug him… a close second to bashing Seth's face in.

Matthew was so shocked he forgot that he was surrounded by a group of dangerous men. He stood quickly and said, "Sadiq,"

A hand came down on his shoulder, pulling him back. Matthew hadn't even noticed he'd taken a few steps forward.

Sadiq, meanwhile, was forced to kneel by the rough, pushing hands on his shoulders. He was glad that the men had allowed him to pull his hood up so that his face was hidden. He had said that he became easily ill if his head and neck were exposed to the cold for long periods of time, and he knew how annoying sick captives could be by experience. But despite that, he could still see Matthew, albeit with a little more difficulty.

Seth came to stand in front of him, and Sadiq was furious that he was blocking his view of Matthew. "This is your last chance, boy. If you have any answers to spill, you might want to start spilling them now."

Sadiq kept his head down and didn't say anything. If he lied, they would know. If he told the truth, then he as well as Matthew would be killed. Silence was the only option in his mind.

Seth raised an eyebrow. "Still not talking, eh? How 'bout we change that?" He turned to face the men behind Matthew. "He's yours, boys. Just remember not to give him any marks that'll show. We wouldn't want the Overlord on our asses."

Matthew frowned, not quite sure what Seth was meaning, but when he felt hands wrap around him and journey up his shirt, he knew full well what was going on.

Someone nibbled his ear. "You look different than your picture. Like a girl."

Matthew squeaked as he felt fingers burrow into his pants. Since when had society taken such a perverse turn? "And he sounds like a girl, too. Are you sure you ain't one?"

"He probably has a pussy like one."

"Ooh, haven't had that in a while…"

Sadiq's stomach was churning as he watched more and more men stretch out their hands to touch Matthew, to fondle him. "Stop!" he yelled.

"Oh?" Seth turned to him. "Are you ready to give up some information now, or shall we continue to molest your friend?"

Sadiq was fuming. "I—!"

"Don't!" Matthew shouted, and Sadiq gave him a look of disbelief.

"But, M-Mark, those bastards, they're going to—"

"I know," Matthew said hollowly, then with a firm tone he added, "Don't tell them anything, Sadiq." The Canadian knew what he would have to go through to ensure that, but he didn't want them to die before they even had a chance to truly know each other. And if that meant enduring the touches of a few filthy Organization members, Matthew would take it. Though he couldn't stop his heart from beating rapidly in his chest nor the bile rising in his throat as he felt the hand in his pants snake lower.

Sadiq didn't care if they died now. They were going to die anyway, and he didn't want the rest of Matthew's life to be haunted by what would happen to him if Sadiq didn't speak up. They would die, both of them, yes. It would be perfect. They would finally be together, and they would be safe, nothing touching them, just together…

Fuck, I'm in over my head.

Sadiq opened his mouth, fully prepared to tell the men who they really were, when the sound of gunshots pierced the air and what must be a body hit the ground. There was a shout in a language that Sadiq didn't understand followed by a loud crackling and a scream. The men around them were so shocked and bewildered that they just stared as the crowd parted, and Francis came charging through, shooting off anyone he could with a stolen submachine gun.

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Whoa... just, whoa, WTF, France with a machine gun? Mind fucking blown. Despite all the stereotypes France gets over his military and shit I just though I'd throw him a bone. A really big one, with fifty rounds per cartridge, automatic, and most likely illegally sold. Bros, it's totally not an Uzi. Really.

And TurCan is totally working. I am milking this for all it's worth. Poor little Canada just can't catch a break both in life and relationships. (But then again, Turkey is fucking hawt, so he kind of deserves a handicap).

Now, I suck a dates. Next Saturday will be when I will have the campus tour. So, hey, a Saturday post this weekend. Surprise! (Probably not as surprising as France with an Uz-I mean, submachine gun). XD