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“Can’t have you goin’ crazy when you get into bad situations amongst your people,” Gilbert snorted, now standing, wiping his hands on his pants. “C’mon. Get your ass up. We’re gonna start lessons now.”
The rest of the day was spent training. And Alfred truly felt like it was the Revolutionary War all over again. By the time Gilbert decided to call it a day (and he only did so because Antonio and Francis forced him), Alfred felt asleep on his feet.
“Tch, your outta practice,” Gilbert remarked on the ride home, right after Francis reached out to steady the American as he swayed to one side sleepily. Alfred responded with an incoherent mumble, rubbing his eyes. He heard the others laugh, Antonio reaching out and ruffling his hair.
“You are still such a little kid.”
“’m not!” That only resulted in more laughter. As they approached town, Alfred was prepared to return to the inn, head straight to bed and pass out.
“’bout time you got back,” Bill remarked, glancing up from his chess match with Patrick. “Was starting… What the Hell happened to your friend?”
“… Fell off the horse.” Alfred lied quickly, Patrick snorting beneath his breath with Gilbert and Antonio. Francis meanwhile smiled, giving a simple nod.
“Ah yes, it was spooked by some of the wild life we encountered.”
“Sure you just didn’t fall on your arse?” Patrick chirped with a smirk far too much like England’s. But Alfred was far too exhausted to dwell on it.
“Go get some sleep Alfred, we’ll see you tomorrow.” Antonio gave him a playful shove in the direction of the stairs. Alfred just nodded sleepily, walking towards the stairs. He wasn’t halfway up though when he heard panicked shouts. He glanced back wearily, really not in the mood for whatever was happening downstairs…
But the moment he saw the scene before him, every ounce of exhaustion vanished.
Paul was standing in the entrance to the lobby. His shirt torn to shreds, blood running down his chest, jagged numbers carved into his chest.
4:00
“Sa-says tomorrow,” Paul choked out, swaying slightly. Bill had shot to his feet, steadying Paul, before catching the young man as he fell forward.
And Alfred felt his blood run cold.
Translations:
Je suis désolé = I’m sorry
mi hermano = My brother
Cerrado = Shut up
João = Portugal
Obviously, the lines “England” says to America are taken/altered from the drama track. God I loved that track.
And I can state quite clearly, I giggled at every comment I read from the last post, as I knew already that it wasn’t Trent or any of his goons that shot Francis. I’m very interested to see everyone’s reaction to the real culprit~
Also, explaining Solider-mode. Damn that was difficult… Especially cause I wanted each member of the Bad Friends Trio to give a story of sorts… Especially Antonio. Francis’s was a bit fail, but it did seem one of my favorite pairings (JeannexFrancis) worked its way into this story. Along with Portugal. I do hope he appears one day… But right, I’m not sure I explained Soldier-mode very well… So honestly, feel free to ask ANY questions, and I’ll try to explain it to the best of my abilities.
And as per usual… Not too pleased with parts of this chapter, especially the ending… But next segment should be quite enjoyable to write! Time skip occurring soon!
Did anon mention again how she cannot write the Bad Friends? -sweats- I’m very sorry…
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Everyone seems to like to keep me busy. XDDDDD
Anyway, I love your badass trio so much. I can't wait for more, and time skip~ <3 <3 <3
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Oh so fucking good, author!anon! Right now I can't give you a proper review seeing that my eyelids keeps dropping down and I'm studying for college entrance exams (and thus my brain is rendered mush) and I'm only commenting on this in between. Still, I was like O___O (this emoticon will serve as a replacement for a proper adjective to describe my feelings) when they shot France for experimentation (or was it demonstration I kinda forgot). So hardcore, Bad Friends Trio.
...Paul, what happened to you? That bastard Trent seems to be getting more brutal in his efforts to freak America out. Hah. I'll enjoy his ass being whooped by America. Better not mess with your own nation, you... insolent cowboy (argh what the hell is this i give up sorrt writer!anon).
Pffffffffft captcha you never cease to crack me up: toxicity England
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maybe soon someone will find out alfred's a nation?
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Alfred himself, sat near his friend, but he did not speak. He just stared ahead at the wall. His mind churning. His fears had been confirmed. Paul could’ve been killed. Because of him. Because…
“Oi, you start blaming yourself and I’m gonna have to punch ya Al,” he jumped at the sound of his friends voice. Paul was scowling at him, running a hand through his hair. “I let my guard down is s’all. I’m fine, still alive and kickin’. So no blamin’ yourself.”
“Paul you could’ve-”
“Could’ve,” his friend stated with an annoyed tone. “Yeah, I could’ve. But did I? No. So stop your wallowin’! The only way you’d have the right to wallow was if those scratches were gonna scar. Which they ain’t. So cheer the Hell up! We have more pressin’ things to worry about opposed to how I could’ve died or not!”
“He’s right Al,” Bill was standing off to the side, leaning against the wall with crossed arms. “Trent wants to settle this once and for all.”
“Yeah… Tomorrow…”
“You ain’t fightin’ alone.” Bill stated in a tone that said ‘no if, ands or buts’. Alfred just snorted. England (and Francis) had used that tone with him quite often when he had been small. “Oi, I’m serious Alfred.”
“I know,” he responded simply, looking ahead, away from all of them. “I know… But Trent…”
“That bastard is yours.” Vincent responded simply from his place near Bill. Alfred just nodded, eyes looking ahead blankly. Tomorrow would be the end of this entire situation. Tomorrow people would fight and Alfred was positive that not all of them would get out of this unscathed. He wasn’t sure what to do, blue eyes shutting tight as his head fell to rest in his hands. To say he was terrified would be an understatement. Not for himself, but for his friends… What was he going to do? He flashed back to hours earlier with Francis and the others. To hearing about the Soldier-mode, he had only just started learning how to control it. If he lost to that during the following fight with Trent… He could hurt one of his friends without realizing it. Or worse, he could lose himself to that trance.
“It will be alright.” A gentle hand rested on his shoulder, Alfred lifting his head to look at Francis. He smiled, knelt in front of him. “You’ll do fine Alfred.”
“What if…”
“We’ll be watching,” was the simple response. “We will stop you if you lose yourself.”
Alfred was quiet, raising his hand to hold onto Francis’s, like a child. “I’m scared…”
“I know,” the Frenchman responded, using his free hand to brush stray locks of blonde hair out of Alfred’s eyes. “But you are not alone. Remember this.”
He did. But the notion barely eased the churning of his stomach. If he was alone, well, things could be much easier. If he was alone, he could simple ‘die’, and not risk any of his friends. But that wasn’t going to happen. Despite how he had fought against it, they were going to follow him into certain death…
“Let us help you Alfred,” came Antonio’s voice, Alfred shaking his head. “But…”
“You guys have nothin’ to do with this,” Alfred stressed, the Spaniard opened his mouth to argue, but was cut off by Bill.
“Al’s right. I know you guys wanna help, but it wouldn’t be right to get you three involved.”
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Alfred did not sleep well however. For hours he lay wide awake in his bed, staring dimly at the ceiling. His stomach churning with more and more unease with each passing minute.
”You’ll be fine,” an accented voice assured him, Alfred feeling the mattress sink by his legs. He turned his head to the side, England sitting on his bed, one leg crossed over the other, his chin in his hand. An amused smile was on his face, Alfred jolting upright in surprise. The Island Nation just laughed, shaking his head. ”Did I frighten you?”
“N-No… England?”
”That is the name I go by these days.”
“What’re you…”
”You’re scared,” the older Nation responded. He rose to his feet suddenly, resting his hand against Alfred’s shoulder and pushing him down. The American looked up at him, perplexed by the situation. This was a dream, yes. He had finally drifted off to sleep. And this was just a dream his mind had fabricated to ease his nervousness…
He was grateful though, that it was so real.
”Rest, America,” England whispered, brushing hair from his face, a tender smile tugging at the older Nations lips. ”I only came to check on you, not to wake you. Now go back to sleep. You need to be well-rested for tomorrow.”
He made a move to leave, but Alfred’s hand had flung out, grabbing hold of the older Nation’s wrist. England nearly toppled over in surprise, looking at him with wide green eyes. It made Alfred look away almost immediately. “Arth- England, could you just… Stay with me? ‘Til I fall asleep…”
”I thought you weren’t a child any longer.” The other teased, but a frown was on his lips. ”Honestly, you’re independent now America. You can’t expect me to coddle you like when you were under my care!”
“Please…” Alfred didn’t loosen his grip, his voice shaking slightly. “I’m… I’m really scared Arthur. Tomorrow… My friends… Paul could’ve. An-And it’ll be all my fault. Ju-Just like Annie!”
There were tears spilling from his eyes, Alfred turning his head to the side in an attempt to hide them in his pillow. England was right, he was independent now. He couldn’t allow England to see the tears. It would only show the other how little he had grown. If England saw his tears then England would never see Alfred as his equal. And that was what he wanted. That was what he fought for. But he couldn’t stop the tears. He couldn’t stop the sobs that suddenly gripped his form. He tried to muffle them, hiding his face in his pillow, but his shaking shoulders gave him away.
They could all die. All his friends. It would be all his fault. He wouldn’t be able to protect him. He would fail. He couldn’t protect them. Just like with Annie. He could-
Arms wrapped around him suddenly, pulling him into a warm embrace. Automatically, Alfred stiffened, trying to push away. But the arms held him tightly.
“You can’t keep blaming yourself, America.” England whispered, the younger Nation finally ceasing his struggles. A choked sob escaped him, Alfred burying his face in England’s chest, wrapping his arms tightly around the Brit. He clutched the back of the older Nation’s shirt, his body shaking as he continued to sob. The dream-England stroked his hair gently, whispering soothing words. It was like he was a child again, waking up from a horrible nightmare. ”That little girl’s death was not your fault. And your friend’s injury was not your fault. He told you himself, didn’t he?”
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”You don’t need to protect everyone, you know.” Alfred shook his head, sniffling as he tightened his grip on England’s shirt. ”Alfred, you don’t need to be a hero all the time…”
“I just want to protect them…” He whispered voice hoarse. “You always… You always protected me as a kid…”
”Ah, and look where that lead us,” it wasn’t a jab. Not in the least. Alfred could hear the smile in the elder’s voice. Fingers ran through his hair, Alfred feeling his body suddenly growing heavy. ”Rest, Alfred. You need to sleep.”
“Stay… Please…” His eyes were slipping closed, Alfred loosening his hold on the dream. There was a warm chuckle, Alfred continuing on sleepily. “I’m… Independent. I know yo-you hate me but-”
A gentle kiss was pressed against the top of his head, Alfred looking up blearily. England was smiling at him, continuing to stroke his hair. ”I’ll stay. But only this once, understood?”
Alfred remembered smiling before he fell into darkness. A soft lullaby, one he had not heard since he was a colony, accompanying him.
“Oi! Oi sprog! Wake the Hell up!” It was an angry Irish-accented voice that drew Alfred from the darkness. Groaning, he opened his eyes, sunlight streaming in through his window. Patrick was standing over him, an exasperated look on his face. “’Bout bloody time! Molly sent me up, breakfast time.”
“Oh… Um… Thanks…” He sat up, rubbing his eyes sleepily. A sudden glint caught his attention, Alfred looking towards his bedside table, tilting his head to one side. A metal pendant on a black cord was seated there. Sitting up, he reached out, picking up the item, cocking his head to one side. “What…”
“Eh? What’cha staring at sprog?” Patrick voiced, walking over to him. Alfred glanced up at him, before looking at the item in his palm. “Eh? A triquetra? Where’d that come from?”
“A… What?”
“Triquetra. A protection charm.” The Irish Nation responded, taking it from Alfred’s hand. Before the American could even react Patrick had slipped the necklace around his neck, a smile glittering in his eyes. “You should wear it, ‘specially today.”
“But where did it come from..?”
“Maybe you got a lil guardian angel,” the red-head teased, turning and walking out the room. “C’mon, Molly’s waiting!”
Breakfast that morning was a quiet affair. Everyone was on edge, not that it surprised Alfred. He was on edge too, hand shifting to his pistols at any sort of movement. His eyes continued to flicker to the clock, his stomach churning as he waited for the clock to hit 4:00. That was when everything would begin, and end.
Vincent and Bill stood by the front door, for the entire morning. Around noon Gilbert joined them, before taking a seat on the steps leading up to the inn. Even if he wasn’t allowed to join in (which annoyed the Prussian to no end) he was at least going to get a good seat, and be ready to jump in if need be. Antonio joined him a little bit before 2, while Francis remained sitting with an all but mute Alfred. Had had barely eaten, despite the urgings from Molly and Francis. He just couldn’t. If he ate, there was a good chance he would just throw it all up.
“I’ve never… Been so nervous before…” He mumbled, glancing at the Frenchmen by his side, before to the Irishman who had taken a seat beside him minutes earlier.
“Were you this nervous before any of the battles you have faced?” Patrick asked, tilting his head to one side. Alfred looked at his hands, frowning a little.
“… Yeah, yeah I was nervous. But it was different…”
“What d’you mean? You gotta explain yourself more Alfred.”
“Just… During those wars, I mean, I had orders to follow. Everyone else had orders to follow. But this fight, its gonna just be chaos, isn’t it?”
“Mmhmm,” Francis hummed, at he felt the other Nations rest a hand on his shoulder. “But so is a life as a human.”
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They were praying. Huh, he never took Liz to be that religious.
Shouts issued Paul’s entrance; the other young man stating quite loudly that he was fine, that he was okay and could help. Ruben followed after him. Alfred stood up at this scene, about to say something, but Liz had broken away from the older women, taking Paul’s hand with her own. They didn’t say anything, Paul shutting his eyes tightly, before nodding, allowing Liz to pull him away and back to where her Mother and Molly sat.
Ruben joined the men by the door moments later, and he saw the three older men exchange looks.
“It’ll be fine.” His head snapped around to look at Patrick. The Irishmen gave him a confused look.
“What’re you starin’ at?”
“I thought…” He could have sworn he had heard England’s voice, coming from where Patrick was. But as the Nation continued to stare at him with pure confusion, Alfred decided it was just his imagination. “Never mind. It was nothin’.”
As the time grew closer and closer, he began to toy more and more with the triquetra that hung around his neck. If it was really a protection spell… Well he hoped that protection could reach out to his friends today as well.
“Oi, Al.” He looked up, nodding simply as he stood walking to join Bill. The older man frowned, planting both his hands one the blonde’s shoulder. “Alfred. Hey, you don’t have to do this.”
“It's my fault this started…”
“In fairness,” a snort sounded, blue eyes glancing to where Vincent stood, tilting his head back with his pistol. “It’d be my fault.”
“… I’m sorry, have I suddenly gone crazy. Vin, are you admitting you did something wrong!?”
“If you’re goin’ crazy so am I Bill!”
“Oi! Don’t be such smart-asses!” The man snapped, looking over his shoulder and out the door. “’sides. We don’t have the time.”
It was true; he could hear the laughter from Trent and his gang. Willing his nerves down he brushed Bill’s hands off his shoulders. “I’ll be fine Bill. You guys just… Just be careful.”
He didn’t wait to hear an answer. He walked straight passed the men, nodding in acknowledgement to Gilbert and Antonio’s words of luck. Fingers brushed against the triquetra again, Alfred mentally saying a silent prayer, asking whatever or whomever was up there to watch over his friends. Because as much as he would like, he would not be able to this time. And that thought made his stomach clench more than the thought of the upcoming fight.
“Ah, looky, looky, the baby actually came out to play!” Trent was laughing. He always seemed to be laughing. Striding forward, his gun already drawn. Alfred’s hand flinched, resting on the handle of his own pistols, eyes narrowed behind his glasses. The thug just laughed again, Alfred almost stumbling back as he nudged him with the end of his pistol. “Here I thought my message wouldn’t be good ‘nough! Guess I was wrong!”
“Go to Hell.”
“No thanks kid,” he snorted, grinning madly. “So, y’know how to play this game?”
“Didn’t know you’re crazy game had any rules Trent!”
“Ah! So you’ve got more friends!” Trent grinned more, if that was possible, stepping back and waving his gun in a strange ‘hello’. “Good to see ya both!”
“Fuck off.” Vincent responded, taking the spot to Alfred’s right, while Bill took his left. “This one of your goddamn shoot outs or a chat?”
And then it started…
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Was that how it was to end?
More gunshots followed the first, and he could hear his two friends (yeah… Yeah he would consider Vincent a friend by now) shouting curses. Curses Trent and his friends all too willingly returned.
Was this it? Had his life as Alfred F. Jones ended? His life as a normal human?
”Its only over if you chose for it to be over.” A soft, British voice reminded him. Alfred blinked, trying to banish the dark spots, suddenly aware of voices shouting out to him.
“Al!? Al can you hear me!?” Ruben? Yes, it was the doctor, the man’s eyes wide. Alfred blinked again, trying to clear his head.
”So it’s up to you Alfred, do you want to end this masquerade you’ve grown so fond of? Or are you going to get up?” Alfred was suddenly more aware of his surroundings. The gunshots were louder. Women were screaming. Antonio was besides Ruben, shouting out to someone, a gun raised and smoking. He blinked again, the spots vanishing. ”Do you remember what I taught you Alfred? Always get back. Always-”
“-‘Finish… What you’ve started…’” He whispered, surprising the doctor. Alfred sat up, his head spinning. He heard the man say something out of concern, but Alfred ignored it. Bill and Vincent (and Gilbert now, though Alfred wasn’t surprised by that discovery) were fighting. Fighting a battle that Alfred had begun that day in the saloon. His hand rose to rub where the bullet had hit him. Even as Nation, that could have ‘killed’ him. So why…
His fingers touched the triquetra. A bullet was dug into the metal.
He stared down at it, blue eyes wide. Slowly he glanced at Ruben’s bewildered face, before ahead, where the fight was happening (when had he been pulled away from the action? He had to have blacked out for a minute or so). Shaking his head, he cleared his mind, recalling the voice that had brought him back to his senses.
“I remember England…” He whispered, rising to his feet despite the protests the other two made. He drew his gun, eyes locking onto where Trent was, laughing as he fired. Not even caring what direction he was aimed at. Without even hesitating Alfred rushed back out, taking careful aim. “Oi! Trent!”
The madman turned his head, a look of pure shock running across his face (as well as the face of others who had turned). Alfred pulled the hammer back, shouting above the chaos that had surrounded him. “Learn how to fuckin’ aim!”
And with that, he fired. He wasn’t sure if he actually hit where he was aiming though. A bullet whizzed past by a second later, slicing the shell of his right ear. He stumbled back taking aim again, but could barely pull the trigger back before another bullet shot at him.
Around him was utter chaos, Alfred finding it hard to stay focused on one target for very long. He tried to see where Vincent and Bill were, but they had vanished in the din of chaos. People were screaming all around. And a pain in his side indicated that he’d been hit.
He didn’t pay attention to it, aiming at another of Trent’s men. He fired, hitting the man in the leg. That would keep that one down for a while.
Alfred ducked out of the way of another bullet, all but running into Gilbert. The Prussian shouted at him, Alfred nodding in response. He stood back-to-back with Gilbert, taking aim and firing, trying not to kill any of the other men. He doubted Gilbert was being as kind.
“Remember to keep your head!” The Prussian shouted, before they broke away, rushing into separate frays of battle.
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“Al, get down!” Yelping, he was pulled down by a sudden hand. A bullet ripped through the air, right where his head ad been. “Jesus kid, watch yourself!”
It was Vincent, blood running down the scowling man’s cheek. Alfred was about to say something, a thanks really, but was shoved aside again as Vincent fired at someone behind him. The other man opened his mouth to shout something, but the words never sounded. Instead, a pained noise replaced them.
It was like everything was in slow motion. Blood began to seep through Vincent’s shirt, the man raising a shaking hand to hold his chest. He stared at blood soaked fingers, before at Alfred. The American barely had time to react, screaming out the others name as he fell forward. The man’s eyes were still wide, his breathing quick. Alfred felt his eyes widen, mind suddenly going blank.
Back on the Wagon Trail, he could have cared less what happened to Vincent. In all honestly, there were many times when he wished the man would die. But things had changed… Sure they didn’t get along very well. Vincent still teased Alfred at every chance he got, and often Alfred would take his bait and fight back…
But… But they were slowly becoming friends… Weren’t they? Alfred had thought they were.
The distant sounds of battle crept into his mind.
“A-Al, hey… Hey kid… You cryin’..?” He was, and Vincent just laughed. But it wasn’t his normal, condescending laugh… It was too weak… And yet, a warmth was in it. “Honestly… Su-Such a baby …”
“Vi-Vincent? He-Hey just hold on! Okay!?” He was trying to stop the bleeding. Begging his frozen mind to work. For battlefield knowledge to kick in. He knew first aid. He knew how to stitch wounds. He could save him…
“Can’t believe… you’re cryin’… For som-someone like me…” The man laughed again. Alfred squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight down the tears. Why wouldn’t his mind work?
Canons were firing. He could smell the musket smoke. No, no he needed to remain focus. He couldn’t give into this Soldier-mode. He had to be stronger then it!
But Vincent… This was his fault. Vincent had been fighting to help him. Even if they had originally disliked each other. Vincent had dropped his own guard to pull Alfred out of the way…
Orders, generals were shouting orders. He could hear the musket rounds…
“Vincent… Do-Don’t die… Please…”
Rain, the rain was falling. No, he had to stay focus… He had too…
Vincent’s eyes had slipped closed. Alfred felt his chest tightening. Gently he shook the other man, trying to stay focused on the present, opposed to the illusions that were growing strong. “Vi-Vincent? He-hey, wake up! Vincent wake up! You, you fuckin’ asshole! Wake up!”
But the man didn’t move, not even after Alfred’s panicked insult. The American felt the tears racing. No. No. No. It couldn’t. No, he couldn’t…
Alfred felt ice run through his veins as he carefully set the still form down. He was dead… He had died helping Alfred…
It was all his fault.
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He was fighting, Alfred was distantly aware of that. His body was acting without him even thinking really. Firing at his opponents, at Trent’s gang, or were the Red Coats?
Was he in the West, or on the battlefields at Yorktown?
Was the man across from him, laughing like a madman Trent… Or was he England?
A hand grabbed hold of his arm, and a distant voice was saying something to him. He could barely hear the words though, yanking his arm out of the others grip. His blue eyes were locked on the laughing man. His gun aimed as he fire at him.
More voices were shouting at him. Or were they orders? He couldn’t keep anything straight anymore.
“-merica!”
“-and down!”
No, he couldn’t. Not yet. The laughing man… This was his fault, wasn’t it? He had started this whole ordeal. Alfred had to stop him. Had to kill him.
He was shoving past other men. Rain was falling. He could feel it hitting his skin, drenching him to the bone in mere seconds.
He tackled the man to the ground, a sense of déjà vu washing over him. It was England beneath him, England who Alfred had pointed his gun at.
“Pull it,” the British voice snapped. “Show them all you’re a killer!”
No… No, this wasn’t England. The form kept flickering. Alfred felt his breathing come quick.
”The longer you stay in that trance Jones, the harder it is to snap out of it.” Gilbert’s words fluttered to his mind. The advice he had given him during their training only the day before. ”You can’t give into it. I don’t care how fuckin’ appealing it seems. You can’t lose yourself to it.”
Gilbert’s words were right. He couldn’t. As much as he wanted too. He couldn’t… But it was so much easier to fire… Would it be so wrong to allow the trance to keep hold of him? For just a little while longer?
“Big brother!” He froze, Alfred lifting his head to look at the little girl that stood in front of him. Annie, little Annie, was standing there, her hands planted on her hips. “Stop it! Big brother! You gotta calm down. You don’t really wanna kill him!”
But he had hurt so his friends. He had hurt Molly. Paul. And now, now Vincent was dead because…
“It's not like you! Big brother is kind, he doesn’t like to hurt people, let alone kill someone!”
“That’s right…” He whispered, eyes still transfixed on the little girl, warm tears dripping from his eyes. “But I’m not… I’m not really that guy. I’m America… I’m a soldier…”
“But America is also Alfred!” She chirped coming closer to him. Her little hands took hold of his shaking hand, the one that held his pistol to England’s forehead… No it was Trent’s wasn’t it? “And Alfred is America! If America is a soldier, then so is big brother. But if big brother is a kind person, then so is America!”
He shook his head, shutting his eyes tightly. “Big brother, don’t let this side take over. You’re stronger than it!”
“How’re you so sure..?”
“’Cause, you gotta be strong to be a Nation! And big brother is a big strong Nation, right!?”
“Annie…”
“America is Alfred. Alfred is America.” She smiled, keeping hold of his trembling hand. “If America’s strong, then so is big brother.”
His eyes shut tight as he listened to her words. She was right. He was America. He was a soldier. He had gained his independence, his status as a Nation, through war. That was a part of him. It coursed through his veins. This Soldier-mode another part of him…
But he was also Alfred F. Jones. An orphan. A person who had found a place amongst a group of settlers. Someone who didn’t want to hurt others.
America was Alfred. And Alfred was America.
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“… Thanks Annie…”
He stood, kicking Trent’s guns away from the madman. “It's over Trent.”
His voice echoed across the town. Those that were still fighting ceased, heads turning to look at the two. Alfred was silent, suddenly aware at how much pain coursed through him. Of how exhausted is body felt. He wiped his eyes, before placing the pistol back in his holster. “The fights over. I’m not gonna shoot you.”
“Ya a coward?”
“No, I just don’t see the point to sinking to your level. I’d rather let you rot in jail.”
America fought wars. America killed people. Alfred had done these things as well. But he wasn’t on the battlefield where killing was necessary to survive. No, he was in his new home. A place where killing wasn’t necessary for survival. And as much as he hated this man, as much as he wanted too, he could not kill him. He’d rather see him rot in jail.
And as America, he would make sure that happened.
Turning, he began to walk back to where Vincent lay. The fight had ended with his words, most of Trent’s gang limping away. Gilbert was still shouting something at a few of them, but Antonio was pulling him off the street. Bill was knelt by Vincent, Ruben by his side. Alfred took a steadying breath. It was over. And Alfred hadn’t felt so exhausted since the end of the Revolutionary War. He swayed on his feet, ready to collapse. But he could yet, not yet.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Alfred!” Before he could even react, two hands had shot out, shoving him backwards. Three gunshots echoed into the air. With wide eyes he snapped his head around, staring at the two Nations that had pushed him. The ones who were now standing protectively in front of him.
It was Francis and… And England?
His heart lodged in his throat as he stared at the back of his former guardian. Nothing was said, the two keeping their pistols (Alfred didn’t even realize they had pistols!) raised, standing shoulder to shoulder as they stared ahead. He looked past them, at where Trent had been. The man was on the ground now, two gunshot wounds bleeding, his gun in his hand. He was dead.
“Didn’t I teach you never turn your back on the enemy?” A familiar voice hissed. Alfred just nodded mutely, trying to register what had just happened. Was he hallucinating again? Yes, that had to be it… He was…
England turned his head. And Alfred was met with familiar green eyes, and a freckled face.
He had mistaken Patrick again…
“Didn’t he teach you anything?” The Irishman spat out.
“Are you alright Alfred?” Francis questioned, turning to face the American, slipping the pistol he carried back into its hostler. Again he nodded mutely, trying to register what had happened. The Frenchman nodded, but there was a small frown on his lips. “That was a foolish thing to do, you know that right?”
He nodded, he didn’t dare risk speaking. His voice would crack, he knew that very well. Patrick just snorted, and Alfred licked his lips, trying to say something. The man though had finally faced him, a weak smile on his lips. Alfred felt his throat constrict even more, the red head setting his hand on the young Nation’s head. “Honestly… What am I going to do with you…?”
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But what had happened? Alfred didn’t- No, no… That was right; he realized belatedly, there had been three gunshots. Two had been from Francis and Patrick… But the other, the other had been fired by Trent. It had been meant to kill him. Patrick had shielded him from it, when he had shoved Alfred out of the way. When he had pushed Alfred behind him.
He was rooted to the spot, watching the scene unfold. His eyes remained locked on the prone Nation’s form. His whole body trembled. Alfred knew they couldn’t really die. If he had any doubts, Francis being shot in the forehead had reassured him of that fact. He really shouldn’t feel so terrified. Patrick would be fine. Why was he so terrified?
Blue eyes widened behind glasses, hands almost rising to rub them in disbelief. Patrick’s image flickered, like a ripple in a pond. Red hair flickered to familiar blonde, the freckles vanishing for an instant. Francis was shouting in more of a panic now, Patrick biting something out at him, his image continuing to flicker back and forth. Finally, Alfred managed to move his body, taking a step forward on numb feet.
“En… gland?” No, no Alfred was hallucinating again. That had to be it. Because there was no way England would be here… No way…
Green eyes snapped around. He saw England’s face, no he saw England. But there was no way…
“England!?” He took another quick step. Blue eyes remaining locked with green as England mouthed foreign words. Antonio had jumped to his feet, suddenly grabbing hold of Alfred as he tried to reach where the bleeding Nation lay. He struggled against the other’s grasp, watching green eyes fall closed again, hearing the panicked shouts from Francis and German curses from Gilbert. “England! Arthur! ARTHUR!”
A weight hit the back of his neck. A veil of darkness falling over his mind.
Oh my goodness. This was such a long segment -dies- But I figured you would all kill me if I just cut the gun fight in half. Even though I still left it at a cliff hanger of sorts…
And on that note… I really I hope the gunfight was okay… It was my first time trying to write one, and I already do not have much experience writing fighting scenes in general. So I hope it wasn’t too confusing… Though I have a distinct feeling this entire chapter was just confusing as Hell.
orz; I also probably just… Butchered France so much throughout these past few segments. But I can’t help it… My head canon for him stresses that, despite how much he flirts and likes to joke around, he is one of the most mature characters. I figured with the seriousness of what’s happening here, that he would just be serious to give Alfred some good advice…
And yet, I still feel like I butchered him…
But right… I do hope everyone enjoyed this. I will try to get another chapter up soon. But I don’t think anything will ever be as long as this one!
-dies for how long it turned out to be-
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Pardon me... I'm just going to run over here and squee like a mad woman into my pillow so as not to scare the neighbors.
I can't wait for more!!!! I've got to know what happens next now. XD
Also... ReCaptcha= mopes Vincent... *sobs* Vincent!!!
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Will his friends find otu his AMerica after a freakout like this? Will England survive?I can't wait to read the next chapter! >w
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Sorry for any confusion (and your questions shall receive answers very soon~)
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