Alfred walked past some of the bedrooms upstairs en route to his study, and saw through one of the ajar doors that Alex—that seemed so weird to say now, but he'd have to get used to it—was lying on his bed, staring up at the bullet. That one bullet. Alfred suddenly felt overcome with a curiosity and halted in his tracks, before stepping back and knocking on the wood of the bedroom door. Alex didn't even stir.

"Everything alright?" he asked as he twirled the small metal object between his fingers.

"I have a question . . . Or two . . ." Alfred replied. "Mind if I come in?"

"Be my guest." Alex replied. He sat up and let his legs dangle over the side of the bed frame, sliding the object into the pocket of his jeans. "How can I help you?"

"Well, actually, I was going to ask you about that bullet you always carry with you." Alfred replied as he took a seat next to the other American. "You said it was a sentimental thing?"

"That's right."

"Am I allowed to ask for an elaboration?"

"You sure you're ready for a story like that?" Alex remarked, his voice seemingly more mellow than usual. "It's not one of dragons, princesses and happy little wizards, you know."

"I'm a man, I can take it!"

"Well, if you're sure . . ."

Reluctantly, he withdrew the bullet from his pocket again and held it in the flat palm of his left hand, allowing Alfred to get a better look at it. It looked like a standard bullet from a distance, but up close, smaller blood-red markings were visible on the outer coating.

"This is the bullet that killed someone extremely important in my world." he said quietly yet casually.

"Wait, this killed a guy?" Alfred iterated with disbelief. "As in, it was inside them? Dude, I hate to break it to you, but that's messed up!"

"For you, maybe. But this bullet is what gave me my name in my world."

"What, Alex?"

"No, I mean—"

"Jones?"

He sighed, exasperated. "Nooo! Those names weren't used back then," Alex stated, "unless you knew their owner personally! Look . . . Every skilled hitman, murderer and criminal made a name for themselves in that world, and it became their only name."

"So what was yours?" Alfred asked, his interest entirely piqued.

"One that I'm definitely not sharing." Alex replied with a daring smirk. "I don't want to give you nightmares."

Conversation continued like this only momentarily, both of the Americans giving each other a series of questions and answers of all sorts of subjects, until Alfred eventually brought it back to their original topic. He was keen—desperate even—for an answer to his next question, but also felt anxious about what it would be . . .

"So, this bullet made a name for you, right?" he questioned, pointing to the object. Alex nodded. "Who'd you kill?"

The fist tightened around the small metal object almost instantaneously, and the blonde went silent. He stared at his closed fist and wrapped his other hand over it slowly, cautiously, the slightest hint of a frown and watering eye daring to show. Alex bit the inside of his lip. Why did he ask that? Actually no, forget that, why had Alex even agreed to answer and his questions in the first place?! That was such a stupid move! It basically broke five or six of the rules he'd created for himself in his previous life!

'What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I reacting like this?' he asked himself as Alfred looked on, increasingly concerned and anxious. 'It didn't matter to me back then, so why am I . . . Have I gone . . . Soft?'

"Woah, what's wrong?" Alfred questioned. "If you don't wanna say, it's not an issue. I'm sorry for asking you, that was insensitive and—"

"No . . . No, it's fine . . ." Alex muttered. He unfolded his hands again and let his eyes fall onto the marked face of the bullet. "No one really ever asked, so I never paid it any attention . . ."

Alfred rested a comforting hand on the other American's shoulder, and repeated that he didn't have to say if he wasn't ready. He didn't want to cause any pain for Alex, but he also knew it was good to get things off of one's chest for the sake of one's sanity. Of course, that only ever applied if there was any sanity left to begin with.

"It was my . . . God, I don't even know what you'd call it!" Alex blurted out, utterly confused and annoyed at himself. Had he really become so heartless since then? "He was like a friend, but more than a friend, if you get what I mean. I'm not one to get attached at all, but he was different than the others . . . Irritating, an idiot, clever . . . Kind and calculated . . ." he said, trailing off. He glanced to Alfred. "What do you call someone like that?"

"Did you love him?" Alfred carefully questioned.

"I . . . I don't know . . ." he blinked in thought. "Maybe?"

"Well, if you did, then I'd go with 'crush' if you guys hadn't confessed to each other or anything." Alfred mused, now starting to wonder who this individual was but also how torn Alex must've been at the time. "Did he have a name?"

"What have I told you about names?" Alex frowned. "No, not technically. Not one that I actually knew."

"So describe him to me."

"Huh? Oh, uh, well . . . Like I said, he was smart but also dumb, shorter than me, bless him, but he was oddly kind. He had one of those friendly faces of a stranger, as if he'd known you for a while and was just visiting for a quick chat whenever you bumped into him . . ." Alex said, trying to picture said man in his head, letting the perfect image form in front of him in memories.

Alfred sat quietly. He'd gotten Alex to start opening up, and wasn't prepared to interrupt that. It had only been three days since they'd met each other, but he suddenly felt like he'd known them for a lot longer, and was now more determined than ever to see them all thrive and freely express themselves while they were there with him.

"But he also had a really bad habit of showing up while I was in the middle of a mission and screwing it up for me." Alex continued with a faint smile, now pushing the bullet around with his finger, looking at it with a sort of compassion he hadn't felt in a long while. "Sometimes he'd steal the kill, sometimes he try to kill me! Man, it was such a crazy life while he was around, and that morning when my next mission came through and I saw his face on the file, I just . . . I shut it all off."

"What do you mean?"

"The emotion, the attachment. Gone. Rule number one in my world is to never get attached to anyone, because it will bite you in the ass sooner or later, and you'll get hurt." he answered. "I broke the rule . . . I paid the price . . ."

Alex picked the item up and held it between two fingers, now admiring the red paintings on its curved surface. Each marking represented an encounter they'd had. He shook his head at his own childish behaviour back then. He could hear that voice lecturing him, telling him to go away and leave the work to the professionals. He could hear it scoffing and stifling laughter at his earlier tasks, but then congratulating him later down the line when Alex made his Name, becoming somewhat softer and more respectful. He smiled. He loved that voice, that accent . . .

"God, he was so fucking British." he mused aloud, without realising it.

Alfred almost lost his shit at that moment. "British?" he repeated.

"Mhm. To the bone." Alex reiterated.

At that moment, Charles appeared suddenly in the doorway, seemingly running low on breath, and he interrupted the flow of the conversation. Both blondes on the bed turned their attention to the other American, the bullet being carefully slid back into a safe pocket and a stray strand of hair being flicked back into place.

"Hello, Charlie," Alfred said with a smile, "can we help you?"

"Not me," Charles said through bated breath, "but probably Allen."

Alfred's smile fell flat. "Allen? What's wrong?"

"I have absolutely no idea, but Amelia just came running in yelling bloody murder." he responded. "I'm amazed you didn't hear!"

Without hesitating, Alfred shot up from his seat on the bed and raced past Charles, along the hallway and downstairs to find Amelia. He thought it odd that Charles was out of breath given how close they were to the stairs and how physically fit he actually was, but shook it off as urgency. Charles glanced back to Alex.

"So, everything alright with you?" he asked, letting out a huff of air as he tried to collect himself.

Downstairs, Alfred almost bumped into Amelia as he flew off the last step, feeling incredibly anxious about what was happening. Had Allen gotten hurt? Had he gotten lost? Why was Charlie being so damned cryptic about it all? He apologised to Amelia after catching himself, and she sighed with relief when she saw it as him. She seemed to be feeling tense, worried . . . Maybe even scared. She was clutching a piece of tissue, her hand shaking slightly, and her eyes looked more red than should've been normal.

"What's wrong? What happened?" Alfred frantically interrogated. "Where's Allen?"

"H-He . . . W-We were walking through the field together, and it was all so quiet and calm, a-and I don't even know what happened, but he s-suddenly f-fell, and . . ." she stammered, trying to stay calm but struggling. She took a deep breath and collected her thoughts while she could hold onto them. "He got shot," she said, "and he t-old me to come back here a-and get help . . . I-I didn't see anyone as I ran or hear anything! I-I just came s-straight ba-ack and Charles w-was here a-and . . ."

Alfred wrapped his arms around Amelia protectively and held her close for a moment, letting her release all the sobs and tears so that she could at least try and think straight and calm down. The sooner it was out the better. Alex and Charles came downstairs only moments later, and after quickly having the information passed onto them by Alfred, Amelia finally seemed to have relaxed a bit more and was breathing normally.

"Stay here with Charles." Alfred said to her, quickly assessing her own well-being. She seemed fine besides the crying, and Amelia obliged, allowing Alfred to take control of the situation. "Alex, you come with me. We'll go find him. Is he out in the sunflowers?"

"Y-Yeah . . ." Amelia answered as she sat down on a sofa. "Just keep going i-in a straight line . . ."

"Alright." Alfred responded. He turned to Alex, who had miraculously pulled a gun from somewhere, and said, "Let's go, and go quick. I'm not losing anyone."

Both blondes raced out of the house, Alfred slightly ahead of Alex, and the gentle breeze picked up the further they progressed along the grassy terrain. They were at the sunflowers within moments thanks to the sudden adrenaline rush, and Alfred spotted in the distance some sunflowers shaking around more than those surrounding them. He wasn't sure what to make of it at first, but Alex cursed under his breath and hurried towards the spot. Alfred followed suit.

He was scared. One thing that he didn't know about his fellow Americans was the status of their immortality. They may have been fine in their previous worlds when it came to injuries (except from Alex, it turned out. He was basically human, albeit physically not mentally.) but this wasn't their world anymore. What if they could die now? That was something Alfred hadn't even considered, but he wished he had.

"Allen?!" he called out. "Allen, where are you?!"

There was a prolonged silence, filled with dread and fear. Alfred felt a terrifying wave of fear, guilt and shame washed over him. What if Allen was dead? Alfred had let them leave, so it was all his fault! He shouldn't have let them leave! He should've known after Charlie got hurt that the others were more susceptible to injuries now that there were in his world! Why had he been so stupid?! A hero doesn't send people to their doom, they're meant to save them from their doom! He screamed at himself mentally for a handful of seconds. He didn't know what he would do if he'd lost one of his American peers . . . He wouldn't forgive himself, that was for sure . . .

"Motherfucker, w-what took so long?!" a voice called out, clearly exhausted and exasperated.

"Oh thank fuck, you're alive!" Alfred said, unleashing a large sigh of relief, feeling a shiver race down his spine as the fear slipped away.

"Over here, come on!" Alex called behind him towards Alfred. He'd spotted Allen and was now running towards him, slipping his gun away safely.

The auburn-haired American was led on his back extremely uncomfortably, each movement creating an aching, burning or stinging sensation somewhere. Especially when he moved his leg. Blood was seeping out at a remarkable rate from two bullet wounds; one in his left thigh and another a bit higher in his hip. For about five minutes, he'd been drifting in and out of sense and all consciousness, unable to move. He could barely think straight, and that fire that had sparked not too long before was starting to slowly burn brighter and fiercer.

Moving Allen seemed like an impossibility. Each time Alex tried to shift him in some way, his hand either got a slapped away or Allen audibly winced as more pain raced across his left side. Eventually, Alfred had remembered the surfboard in his possession, and left the other two alone while he raced to grab it, believing it was the only easy way to get Allen back to the house.

About fifteen minutes and possibly a pint of blood later, a passed-out Allen was back inside the sanctity of the house where his wounds could finally be assessed properly. Alex took authority on that, having had a lot of experience with such things, and ended up having to try and extract the bullet that was still lodged in Allen's side. It was a good job he was out of it,  really. By 10pm, things had calmed down somewhat and three of the five Americans were asleep from exhaustion and/or the need to try and recover. Charles and Alfred were the only two left awake, and were outside the back, sat down on the porch next to each other as the sun disappeared for the night.

"I almost lost one, Charlie . . ." the blue-eyed blonde muttered as he stared back out towards the sunflowers.

"But you didn't."

"But I could have."

"But you didn't," Charles repeated, "and that means you don't need to beat yourself up over it. Allen will be fine in a couple of weeks."

"Alex said he was lucky the first bullet didn't hit his spine." Alfred said. "He could've been paralysed . . . What would I have done then?"

"But he wasn't! You need to stop looking at the negatives!" the other American chided. "God, it's no wonder you faced a depression back in the thirties . . ."

"Thanks for the moral support, Charlie. I'm soooo glad I can rely on you." Alfred remarked as he rolled his eyes.

Charles patted him on the back amiably. "You can always rely on me, Alfie."

'So long as you don't give me reason to shoot you too . . .'