Amelia had never felt hopeful until the faint light from the house had poured into the dreary basement, and with it, Allen. She'd been anticipating and other visit from Charles, and she wasn't really in the mood to see the stuck-up, pathetic, worthless piece of crap come back and boast any more. He was a waste of energy. Breath. And she would - most importantly - never look at him the same way for hurting Allen how he did. Whose side are you on, Amy? The side that'll see you gone for good, she cursed.

She and Alfred had been down there and conscious for about half an hour; before waking up, she couldn't know. Alfred had only come out of his mind after she had, and even then, she still felt like she was yet to reengage with her surroundings. What had been in her drink? What the hell had Alex acquired and how? Actually, scrap that, what the hell was up with Alex? Because not only had he drugged her: he'd attacked Allen, attacked Alfred, separated them and then strapped them to some metal piping with cable ties (how original) to simply piss them off more.

'It's a shame too,' she thought to herself as Allen came quietly down the stairs and spoke to Alfred. 'Alex seemed like such a nice guy until, you know, psychopathy . . .'

"I'm going to get you guys outta here," Allen said, "but I have to go and get a knife or something. A bat is only so useful . . ."

"There's a drawer by the sink," Alfred told him weakly, head now throbbing. "It's to the left. Y-You should find something there, dude."

"OK, I'll only be a minute, and then we have to get out of here," the auburn replied, already heading back towards the stairs and the door. "I won't be long, I promise."

"Less talking, more walking," Amelia said in an attempt to be lighthearted, with a small smile.

Allen nodded and gave her a reassuring smile back, and then hurried back up the stairs, opening and closing the door again as quietly as he could. Drawer by the sink. He hoped that Alex or Charles hadn't gone through any of them and removed things that would be useful. Though, bearing in mind that Arthur had checked two or three drawers earlier on for something sharp and come out with a small, piddly thing, he supposed he wasn't out of luck yet.

Meanwhile, below, Amelia and Alfred were reduced to silence again. Neither of them could think of what to say. They had both been wrong, they had both trusted the wrong people, they had both paid no mind to those who had tried to warn them. How could you apologise for that? Alfred felt worse, though. He needed to speak to Arthur. Say sorry, get on his knees if he had to, and beg for forgiveness . . .

The door opened and both blondes looked to the silhouette. Alfred only saw a blur, but Amelia could see it clearly ("That's why you wear contact lenses . . .") For a moment, they had thought it was Allen, but when they realised it was a slighlty smaller figure in terms of frame, it became clear that Charles had decided to pay another visit. For Alfred, it meant it was time to be mute. For Amelia, it meant it was time to pray that Allen wouldn't be found out.

"You've got about forty minutes," the grey-eyed blonde informed them. "It appears I've lost about asset, so you'll have to excuse me while I go and find him . . . Not that you can go anywhere . . ."

He didn't wait for a response; he knew he wouldn't get one, especially not from these too. Charles liked it more when they spoke back. Showed some attitude, some resilience or some defiance, because it meant he could just crush them even more. Like Allen and Arthur. Talking to them was like a roller coaster ride. It wasn't boring old silence! It was entertainment! . . . But he had other things to sort out first, so he closed the door with a careless slam, and the other Americans listened at soon after, the front door of the house was slammed shut too.

Allen peered out into the living area and towards the door, just to be sure that Charles had gone, and was satisfied to see the prick walk past the window and far away from the house. He couldn't lie, he had been worried for a moment. If Charles had found him, things could've gotten messy prematurely - Allen liked order and sticking to plans where he could.

With a little less caution than before, he traipsed back around to the basement door and walked back down. It was fortunate that this time, he located the actual light swith and was able to then see Alfred and Amelia much more clearly. And God, did they look like shit. Or at least, Alfred did: stained with mud and blood and cuts and bruises. He wasn't sure he wanted to ask what had happened.

"What did Charles say to you guys?" he asked instead, heading first to Amelia with a small pocket knife he'd found exactly where Alfred had said he would.

"Something about needing to go and find Alex," Alfred said.

Amelia let out a sigh of relief at the freedom of her wrists and she rubbed the sore, red patches of skin. "They can find each other and go jump off a cliff together, for all I care . . ."

"Patience is a virtue," Allen replied, now moving get over to help Alfred out, too.

"Al, where's Arthur?" Alfred questioned next, only just realising how Allen had come alone.

The auburn pocket the blade after severing the tie. "Long story short, I sent him to go and wait for your brother at the end of the lane," he explained. "We're supposed to meet them there."

"M-Mattie's coming?"

"Yeah, I won't explain just yet, we need to get going," Allen said, before quickly adding: "Can you see anything right now?"

Alfred shook his head, then picked himself up off the floor unsteadily. "Charlie took my glasses."

"Shit . . ."

"I think they're just in the living room somewhere," he added. "I heard him muttering . . . A few times . . ."

"Right, well, let's get a move on," Allen said. "Well get your glasses, arm both of you, then we have to go and regroup."

There were no objections. The trio immediately made their way up the the ground floor of the house and got to work. Fortunately for Alfred, Amelia had spotted his glasses over on the coffee table (it was almost as if Charles wanted them to be found) and given them to him, and he felt thankful that he could see again, and see the state of himself.

"Jesus," he muttered as he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror.

There was a trail of blood running down the side of his head, down his neck and then leaking to the fabric of his t-shirt. He looked like he'd been dragged through several bushes, a red paint factory, and World War One all at once.

"Welcome to my world," Allen remarked.

The headed into the kitchen next. Allen was going to have them leave through the backdoor and go the way Arthur had, around the side and out of sight, and then they would hit the lane and just run. Or, walk fast, perhaps. The blondes still seemed to be regaining energy, unfortunately.

"Shit," Alfred mumbled, having gone through a few drawers in search of something useful. "They stole all my big knives . . ."

"Have you any guns anywhere?" Allen queried.

"U-Uh, not in the house. I only kept my pistol, but Charles . . . Took it . . ." He was started to get frustrated with all of this interference. "We'll just have to go as we are . . ."

Allen held back some colourful language, and took the knife out from his pocket. "Here," he said as he gave it to Alfred. "It's better than nothing."

He nodded his thanks, and Allen wasted no more time in leaving the house and all of its chaos behind. It was like a honey trap for bad things. He wanted it to burn or explode or something, but he had to remember it wasn't his to destroy. Not this time. But the same couldn't be said for Charles or Jonesy though, eh? That was what he was looking forward to. Going home, seeing Matt and Ollie and maybe even François and giving Charles a good hard whack around the head with his adopted baseball bat.

Five minutes passed in silence as they continued to walk, and now they were almost there. In the early hours of the morning it was a bit more difficult to see where they were going; Allen had let Alfred take the lead since he knew the area better, and the original American was now doing his best to guide them all towards the rendezvous point.

Matthew's involvement worried him. He didn't want his brother to get hurt because he'd made some rather big mistakes, and he certainly didn't want Matthew to see him in such a state - holding onto the edge of calmness. To be honest, though, did he want Arthur to see in like that? Would Arthur rub in his face the fact that he had been wrong? That he should have listened and no one else would have gotten hurt? I told you so, he could hear him say. I know, he would reply.

Two more minutes of walking and otnsrumblung, that's all it took for the trio to arrive at the end of the lane, and it was then that, like a miracle, a car quietly pulled up at their side. Alfred recognised it instantly. A wave of relief washed over him as the window rolled down and his brother's face appeared, illuminated by the inside lights of the vehicle.

"O-Oh my God, what happened to you?!" Matthew cried out (albeit, not that loudly) and he wasted no time in unbuckling his seat belt, getting out of the car, and smothering Alfred with all of his concern and attention. "You look terrible!"

"You should see the other guy," Alfred joked, but he couldn't smile for long.

The other guy was fine. The other guy was in one piece. The other guy hadn't endured a single ounce of pain like he had, or seen any one he get about getting hurt.

"Ivan called me," Matthew then decided to explain. "He said Arthur had called, asking for help . . . I-I know about Charles, what's happened . . ." He gave his brother a tight hug. "I'm sorry . . ."

"W-What are you apologising for, huh?" Alfred responded, wrapping his arms around Matthew, too. "You're such a Canadian, Mattie."

"I'll take that as as compliment, eh?"

"Tell me that was on purpose," Alfred said through a faint laugh and the forming of tears in his eyes. God, eventing hurt so much . . .

"Sure thing, dude," Matthew mocked.

They released each other after a short while longer, and it was only then that the Canadian addressed Allen and Amelia properly. They looked rough around the edges too, and Amelia was fading in and out of complete awareness and control quite a bit. What had they gone through, he wondered. Maybe he should have left sooner, as soon as Ivan had called rather than those few minutes later. Maybe he could've helped.

"Come on," he said, most specifically to Amelia, "if you need to sit down and rest, get in the back."

"Nice idea," she mused, and Allen decided to give her a hand as the brothers continued to talk.

Or at least, they tried to talk, but something had made Amelia jump completely out of her skin and she'd let out a faint scream. Matthew turned to see, and his face went red when he remembered who had pestered him to come along.

On the backseat, Gilbert was sprawled out and sleeping. Or at least, he had been sleeping until Amelia's little outburst, and he had bolted upright and nearly smacked his head on the driver's seat. He had asked Matthew to take him for extra back up or support or whatever, especially since it was Alfred's they were headed to, but had wasted no time in catching some shut-eye in the back as Matthew had driven down.

"Sheiß," he mumbled as he woke up and rubbed his eyes, "what the heck was that? Who's screaming?"

"S-Sorry!" Amelia said sheepishly. "I didn't meant to . . . Wake you up like that . . ."

Gilbert shuffled and shifted and then got out of the car. "It's not a problem," he replied, "I'm too awesome to ca--"

His red eyes landed on the young woman, and then on the auburn, and then on Alfred. How much beer had he had the previous evening? Did he have some sort of messed up triple-vision going on? He took a moment to ensure he was actually awake and then looked to Alfred (or what was left of him).

"Who are they?" he questioned, pointing to the people he didn't know.

"You didn't tell him?" Alfred in turn asked Matthew.

"You know he wouldn't have stayed quiet for long," Matthew responded sheepishly. He looked to Gilbert, a little apologetically, and said: "Gilbert, this is Allen and Amelia, and vice versa."

"Too many 'A's," Gilbert remarked, the joking tone not exactly as obvious as it could've been. "Next you're going to tell me that Arthur's here too, huh? With Albert and Archibald, right?"

No one said anything.

"What?" Gilbert frowned.

"We forgot about Arthur," Alfred said, eyes wide and panicked, his heart having skipped a beat.

"I was just joking," the Prussian mumbled meekly.

"W-Where is he?" the original American continued all the same, appealing to his countrymen and his brother. "Is he around here anywhere?!"

"Maybe he fell asleep while waiting . . . ?"

"He's too sharp for that," Allen replied anxiously. "He was perfectly awake when I was with him earlier on."

Alfred dared a glance back up the lane and towards the house. He didn't want to go back, but he supposed it would have had to happen eventually, right? Maybe Arthur had just gotten lost-- He knows this place perfectly-- Maybe he had stumbled, fallen over and knocked himself out-- How absurd can you make these ideas-- Maybe he had gone back thinking Allen needed help or something-- You're pathetic--

"Urghh, I can't fucking take this anymore!" he suddenly cried out.

If anything had happened to Arthur, that was it, he had decided. What good was mercy if none would be shown to those he cared for? What good was forgiveness when the hurt and pain wouldn't leave? What good was restraint when all it was was a weakness? Alfred knew the answer: he couldn't hold back any longer. No mercy. No forgiveness. No restraint. Nothing.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and began to march back up the lane. No one knew what to say to him. Matthew hurried after him, wanting to able to help his brother, and Gilbert similarly wanted to be there for both of them. Allen wanted to go, too, but he didn't want Amelia to say she'd stay and then leave her on her own. But as he turned to ask her what she wanted to do, she was reaching down into the foot pool of the car and picked up a rather desirable object.

"I think Gilbert forgot his gun," she said. "Fancy coming with me to return it?"

Allen nodded, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as Amelia gained a similar determination. "Ladies first."

As they also headed back up the lane to catch up, Alfred, Gilbert and Matthew were quiet. The latter two could only imagine what was running through Alfred's mind. Murder? No, he wasn't that ruthless - nor would he ever be, they hoped - but then people could change in the blink of an eye. This was Alfred they were talking about. And not only that, but Arthur was involved, and both Gilbert and Matthew knew what that meant: war, and dangerous if provoked. He was, after all, a world power.

"So what's the plan?" Gilbert eventually asked as they all came together. "Go in, guns blazing?"

"You need a gun first," Allen remarked, holding out the albino's pistol to him after getting it from Amelia.

"Ja, that helps . . ." he said sheepishly, taking it back.

"I don't want to draw too much attention to us," Alfred stated. "Find Arthur, deal with the others, finish this all."

"Norway and Romania are on their way," Matthew informed them all as they went. "They're a couple of hours away because of the flight, Ivan said."

"Any news on whether they've got an idea of what to do?" Allen queried.

"No clue," Matthew said a bit despondently.

"Then we just wait until they do," Alfred concluded. He would wait as long as it took, so long as no one else got hurt.

Now at the top of the lane, with the Sun peaking over the horizon, the quintet decided to split up now that there were enough of them for two groups to safely scour the area. Matthew and Gilbert were indisputably in a pair, and Amelia volunteered to join them. Allen and Alfred simply looked at each other and hoped that they would then be the ones to bump into either Charles or Alex first. It was an all-American affair, after all. No Canadians or Prussians had to get hurt because of them. Nor any Brits . . .

Alfred said that he and Allen would veer left, back towards the forest, where they had had that paintball match ("And you didn't invite the Awesome King of Paintball - me?!" Gilbert whined.) and towards the shed, then to the back fields. Meanwhile, the other three would head back to the right and sweep the house, and they would all regroup round back. And by then, they hoped, there would be six of them rather than five.

The pair wasted no time and hurried off, then, leaving the others to their own devices, and within thirty seconds they were back among trees and weaving their way through the forest. And two minutes later, of cautious walking and wandering, Allen halted and yanked Alfred back behind a thick tree trunk.

"What the fu--"

"Shh!" the auburn interrupted. "Listen . . ."

"You didn't have to grab my arm," he blonde softly pouted, but he did as told.

Somewhere close by - close enough to to be heard but not seen - two people were having a conversation, and given the civility of it, it was obvious who was talking. Alfred listened intently now, crouching down closer to the ground so both he and Allen could hide properly, and the auburn remained just as attentive.

"Don't you think it's too early for a bonfire?"

"Look, I know it's a November thing but it's never the wrong time to set things alight!"

"Oh yeah, why don't we make it sacrificial and symbolic while we're at it," Charles deadpanned.

"I mean, I have no objection to hanging, drawing and quartering him instead, if you like," Alex replied casually. "I heard Guy Fawkes was also castrated if you pref--"

"Yeah, there's no need for that," the confederate said. "He likes magic, so just let him die a witch."

"You're so boring . . . " he sighed. "But fine. Just let me have some fun before we get started, please . . . ?"

"Whatever. But he goes up at dawn or it'll be your ass on that pile, understand? Make it count," Charles replied flatly.

"Oh, don't worry," the hitman said with an innocent smile, "it shouldn't take too long!"

Alfred suddenly paled.

<><><>

Hehe~
:3