Charles walked across the landing, past the stairs, and headed straight for the library. He was carrying a book in his left hand (something titled 'Know Your Gun', or the like) and a small key in the other. He slipped through the library door in silence, checking the corridor for any unwanted witnesses as he gently closed the door behind himself.

He walked straight over to the room-height bookshelf in the furthest corner in the room, near the window, and he carefully slotted the book back into its place as if it had never been gone. He pocketed the key for the time being; he would return it later, when things were quieter, as he had to slip it back into the kitchen at some point. That seemed to be the most popular room in the entire house, for whatever reason, and he didn't exactly want to get caught trying to return an item he shouldn't have in the first place. There wasn't a valid excuse he could pull.

The key was important. It was the key that unlocked the padlocks to the shed in the woods, where all of the equipment had been stored for years by Alfred. When Charles had been putting away his equipment from the previous day's paintball match, he'd been fortunate enough to spot the case of a sniper rifle on the high shelf in the corner. He knew what such a case looked like; there was no mistaking it. He'd made note of its location for future reference, not expecting to have to need it, but something had made it a necessity . . .

Allen and Charles were the slowest of the group, the auburn purposely gradually having slowed his pace so he could speak to the blonde. He wanted to make his position clear, and while the others were too busy to notice. Charles didn't acknowledge him straight away, that much was evident in the way he didn't stop looking forwards, but Allen was unperturbed.

"So, you're a fan of war?" he asked, giving a quick glance to his listener before looking dead ahead again.

"I've seen many," Charles said with an uninterested sigh. "I know how to win, I know how to lose, I know how to reach a stalemate. Your point?"

"You're asking for war," Allen stated. "The only one of us Americans who doesn't know is Alfred, and I don't think he'd be particularly happy if someone were to tell him . . . Do you?"

"What are you getting at, Allen?"

Allen halted, and stopped Charles in his tracks too, the calmness of his mind now fractured and still gently breaking away. He was a walking nuke, effectively, and both of them knew it.

"I mean back off, Charles," he snarled viciously. The blonde seemed completely unfazed, however, and maybe even a bit amused . . . "You want a war, but you don't know who you're fighting against. If you want to hurt Al, I'm not gonna make it so easy,  and I'm not alone."

Charles gave a small smile. "Now why would I want to hurt Alfie?" he asked with a feigned innocence. "He's done nothing but look after us, after all. Why, without him, we wouldn't even be here!"

"What do you mean?"

"Alfred's the reason we're here, Allen. He just doesn't know it."

And with that, Charles looked the auburn-haired American up and down and continued on his way to the house, leaving a confused Allen in his wake. He immediately sought to speak with Alfred, as if trying to prove a point to Allen, and his demeanour was suddenly more social and friendly.

So, that evening, after Matthew had departed the house and everyone did their own thing, Charles had the ample opportunity to find a way to at least keep Allen under control. When Amelia had virtually dragged Allen out for a walk, Charles made a point of 'going to the library after I get a drink', and he managed to salvage the key before heading upstairs and climbing out of the library window. From there, he'd managed to get down off the sloped roof, race into the darkening woods, unlock the shed, grab the gun after checking all the equipment was at hand, and racing back unnoticed.

It only took a few minutes to sort out the gun. He stationed himself in the library given its vantage point and knowing no one else would go there, and without a noise from the machine, he had been able to fire two bullets at Allen from quite a distance. He was impressed given that he'd only ever used such a gun once before, and he smugly congratulated himself. Of course, he had to be quick now. Through the scope he could see that Amelia was about to start running back for help, and Charles wanted to be downstairs.

He had cautiously put the gun away again and slid the locked case under the low-lying armchair in the corner, and quietly went downstairs, undetected by Alfred and Alex who were now a few rooms away, and he had casually waited on the sofa. Everything was in place, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Charles pulled out a new book from a random shelf so as to make it look like he'd entered the library with reason, and he left the room swiftly, making sure nothing was out of place. Book in hand--one of Dickens' works, it turned out--he traipsed downstairs, and the mask was on again.

"How's everyone this morning?" he asked, concern in his voice. He saw Allen sat on the sofa, and was pleasantly surprised to see him mobile. 

"Uh, I think we are for the most part alright," Alfred replied from his spot on one of the single-seaters in the living area. "You alright, Charlie?"

"I'm fine . . . Still trying to get my head around last night, but I guess that's only natural . . ."

From his cosy space on the sofa, from where he only looked forward, Allen could almost hear the lying and deception in Charles' voice that it took almost every fraction of strength he had left to not throttle him. He knew who'd shot him. It was the only answer, but he hadn't said anything to any of the others; he knew Amelia would likely believe him, but he wasn't sure where Alex's loyalties lied and he didn't want to even think about how Alfred would react.

If he believed Allen, there was no telling what he'd do. If Charles was mortal, maybe he'd kill him, or maybe he'd just try to reason with him and understand . . . But if Alfred didn't believe Allen--because let's face it, 'Alfie' and 'Charlie' know each other so well--then Allen could very well be exiled from the house, or just dismissed. He didn't know which was worse . . .

"Well, no worries," the auburn-haired American said, so he didn't look completely rude. "Something tells me that whoever the culprit is, they won't be loading their gun again any time soon around here."

"Why do you say that?" Amelia quizzed.

"Because," Allen said, "it'd be way too risky for them. I mean, they could get caught! And they wouldn't want that, because they know they'd get Hell on Earth from me."

"I second that," Alfred remarked with a light sigh. "When I find out who it was, I'm going to be taking serious action. They'll be lucky I don't declare it an act of war if it's another personification . . ." 

"Forget war," Allen responded. "War's unnecessary . . . Too many others get hurt in the process, it'd just be another waste of life. Human life, at that."

'Not that he cares, though, eh?' he told himself with a sour smile. 

"That's true . . ." Alex mumbled, giving a small pout. His sharp blue eyes glanced sideways at Charles, but returned to the floor unnoticed.

"It shouldn't come to war, anyway," Charles remarked, his cheek giving a small twitch. "If everyone plays their cards right, we'll be fine."

And so the ex-confederate left the room and went into the kitchen, everyone else remaining sat down and quiet. Alfred didn't like the tensity of the silence and the depression in the atmosphere, but he wasn't sure what to do to try and diffuse it all. With a sigh, he got up, and said he was going to clean upstairs, and so left the remaining three nations on their own.

Alex soon split off too; he went to the kitchen to speak to Charles about something, and asked if anyone wanted a drink while he was there. Neither Amelia nor Allen responded with a 'yes', so he continued on his way, with only one thought on his mind.

"I need to tell you something . . ." Allen muttered under his breath. "But I don't think this is the place, it's not private enough."

"I'm sure it's not that bad, just say it," Amelia responded, looking to him.

"Trust me, it is. And I want to think that you'll believe me, but I'm not sure . . ." Allen continued. He carefully stood up, Amelia having to give him a hand to his distaste, and he thanked her.

"Where are you going?" she asked warily. "You shouldn't be moving around like this, it's no good--"

"Chill out, will ya?" the auburn chided. "I'm just going upstairs. I already told you guys, I'm not a cripple!"

Amelia's face fell flat. She was only trying to help and look after her fellow American; the events of the previous night had terrified her, and the last thing she wanted was for Allen to make it a million times worse for himself. She let go of his arm, and said nothing. Allen winced at his own harshness, but knew it was with good reason and would explain in due course.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm just tired and thus in a pissy mood. I'll see you in a bit."

He made his way to the stairs, limping slightly, and he pulled himself up the fifteen wooden steps. Amelia sighed, and sat back down on the sofa. She decided not the press him for answers. Not yet.

Once upstairs, Allen made sure the coast was clear, and did his best to creep along the corridor towards one of the bedrooms--Alfred's bedroom. Luckily, Alfred was further down the hall in the opposite direction and was unlikely to hear the auburn-haired American having a bit of a snoop where he shouldn't have been. Sure, Allen felt like a criminal for going behind Alfred's back, but he was on a mission and he'd be damned if he did nothing to try and stop Charles before it was too late.

He entered into the bedroom quietly, shutting the door without a noise behind him. He knew what he was looking for, and he knew it was in the room; Alfred had earlier made a point of expressing how technology shouldn't interfere in familial and social times by leaving his mobile in his room, and he hadn't been seen using it in a couple of days. That meant it was still there. And sure enough, Allen spotted the black iPhone on the bedside table.

With hurried caution, he edged towards it. Allen was able to guess the password to Alfred's phone fairly quickly--using his birthday was a foolish move, but beneficial to the auburn. He was only after one contact number, and it didn't take long to scroll down to the letter 'R' and see the person he was after. He scrawled it down rapidly on the scrap piece of paper and left the phone exactly where he'd found it, leaving the bedroom as quietly as possible and closing the door with a gentle click. All that was left to do was grab the landline and use it while no one was around to listen.

In silence, he stared at the number as he walked away, ignoring each outburst of pain that came from his leg. He didn't want to have to call the number, but it was an emergency. He couldn't think of anyone else better to turn to if war was on the table.

'I just hope that you're not gonna be an asshole . . .'

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I wonder who Allen's after . . . :3