Red Ascent (Sequel to Red Fall): 42-46/?
The silence was perfect to be broken.
All that was needed was the right moment, the opportune sliver of ideal alignment to carry out the desired plan, and the quiet would be shattered in an instant.
But his companion, for now, was ever enduring time, that which slowed and quickened in a malicious, teasing manner.
Puffs of quickly condensing air slipped from his mouth, curling, twirling before fading into the inky sky; the moonlight cast distinct, pale shadows on the mutely twinkling snow, abstract shapes that Toris slinked and twisted to avoid. Rifle strapped to his back, the brunette was even further weighed down by his heavy, thick coat; being bitterly cold, however, it was only so much of a hindrance. Counting the seconds in his head, he quickly flicked his revolver barrel open, simultaneously checking his bullet count as he kept track of time. Satisfied with the fully-loaded weapon, he reached the desired number and signaled with his hand, a quick two-fingered wave that could only be seen by those who were paying attention.
Quick, deadened footsteps approached from behind, white fluff packed down and molded as they moved. They stopped directly behind him, though the sole-sighted man didn’t even acknowledge this.
“Report,” Toris said quietly, eye carefully surveying the surrounding area.
“Our side was clear,” a soft monotone spoke, voice smooth like expensive silk, “We incapacitated the few guards patrolling the outer walls, and several on the far side of the ballroom; it was quiet, fast; I assure you they will be out for some time.”
“We didn’t run into as many as Kiku’s group did,” a deeper, brasher sound added, words slightly slurred from the accent, “Though even this pansy Austrian managed to take out one or two.”
“This pansy Austrian, as you so eloquently put it, saved your rather unfortunate rear on several occasions; twice, I believe, in fact,” a creamy alto added, the underlying sarcasm so apparent it almost wasn’t so.
The brunette couldn’t help a smile that twitched at the corners of his lips, quirking the rosy flesh upwards. It was only a cover; he knew that perfectly well. Contrived though it was, the dry humor was like a breath of warm, fresh air, something intended to calm and lighten; he knew that, beneath the hardened surface of callous teasing and faux malicious banter, they were drawn tight, instincts coiled and set, quivering with nervous anticipation.
Tonight.
Only tonight.
It had taken very careful, very patient convincing; for the previous several weeks, the Lithuanian had argued, calmed, and whittled away at the monumental mountain of resistance, weaving his words in a careful web to disperse tension while reigning in his targets.
The opposition peeled away slowly, person after person slowly resigning themselves to the brunette’s plans and placing their trust in Alfred; finally, they was only one left, a single dissenter against the rest of the group; but for something as intricate and risky as was intended, unanimity was needed.
It was no surprise who the last resister was.
After some crafty phrasing and several assurances (promises that Toris weren’t sure could be kept), the lone man had finally acquiesced, albeit grudgingly and with major reservations. After the meeting, the brunette was approached, a final threat whispered low into his ear.
“I hope you are right about him, Toris,” the man had whispered, blue eyes glinting, “such a grave mistake it would be if you were wrong, non?”
The Lithuanian had not graced the Frenchman with a reply.
Returning to the matter at hand, Toris turned to face his team leaders, single eye smoldering with the dark fire of memories. His brow furrowed as he counted the people in front of him, mouth quickly losing its smile.
“Where is Ludwig?”
The red-gazed man snorted, tapping his heavy gun across his shoulders, anxious for the conflict to come.
“Said he had some business to take care of; told me all his men were in place, though,” the Prussian said airy, vaguely, as he shrugged, “Couldn’t have picked a worse time to have something else to do.”
Frowning, the Lithuanian fingered the hilt of his sword, tracing patterns as he decided a plan of action; reaching a decision, he removed the gun from his pocket, cocking the firearm as he gestured at the countries.
“I’ll take care of it,” the brunette murmured dismissively, his thoughts still clouded with worry at the German’s actions, “All three of you know your places, right? Just as was marked on the diagram earlier; wait for my signal and then come in with your men through the windows. All the other teams are already set.”
“Yeah, yeah-We take the small fry guards and kept those prissy asshole guests at bay, and you get the King Fucker himself,” Gilbert dictated; he licked his lips, a grin quickly spreading, “ ‘S been a while since I really beat the shit out of someone; should be fun.”
“Tactful as always,” the Austrian snubbed derisively, giving the flaxen-haired man a sharp look. Carefully adjusting his own pristine weapon, the brunette looked to their leader, “What is the signal, Toris?”
“You’ll know it when you see it,” the Lithuanian said hurriedly, his concern quickly growing at Ludiwg’s deviation, “Now go.”
As the three countries hurried off, the brunette firmly held his revolver as he retraced his steps along the walls, ducking and hugging the stone as needed to avoid any light. He didn’t think that the German had betrayed them, but if he was where Toris thought he was-
Turning the corner, the sole-sighted man found his target.
Ludwig was pressed firmly against the side of the fort, gun slung across his back as he discretely peeked into the window, eyes glazed and expression unreadable. His hands were clenched into fists, the appendages trembling with an insatiable anger. Pulling himself away, the blonde let out a strangled breath, a few mumbled, furious words in his native tongue hissing from his lips.
The Lithuanian let out low, soft whistle, enough to catch the recipient’s attention; after making eye contact, Ludwig turned away, shame burning his cheeks, his frame still stiff and fingers twitching from tension; he knew he had no excuse.
“Toris, I-”
Silencing him with a wave of his hand, the brunette slowly made his way over, looking in through the window after briefly scanning the area.
It was a good view of the ballroom, the area crowded with masked men and women who were laughing and sipping on frothy glasses of champagne. Sweeping his eye over the field of vision, he finally found the source of the problem.
A handsome gentlemen stood with a group of people, his hand lightly gripping a bubbling flute; his amber gaze was absent and dead, auburn-brown hair slipping down across sun-kissed, yet still snowy, skin. His emerald mask, embellished with glittering golds and silvers, did nothing to hide his obvious discomfort and misery, despite its complimentary nature. The dark suit, all smooth ravens with a few splashes of ruby in the tie and kerchief, only paled him further, the expressionless countenance too glaring to ignore. A buxom blond, an incessantly chattering, wisp of a girl, clung to the man’s arm, apparently unaware of her escort’s feelings.
Toris assumed the curl had been brushed back.
“I-I-can’t stand to see him like that,” the blonde managed, his voice wavering as he swallowed hard, “to see what he has become.” Ludwig paused momentarily, collecting racing thoughts and raging emotions, “I’m sorry; there is no excuse for the negligence of my men. They were already in place and I was just doing surveillance when I saw-” a pause for another strangled swallow, “saw-”
Toris said nothing as the man buried his head in hands, attempting to calm himself once more.
“Feliciano,” the blonde whispered, “Ich liebe dich.”
As the Lithuanian parted his mouth to answer, he saw the crowd split, their attention directed towards the front of the room; squinting, his iris widened imperceptibly as he found Alfred, the extravagantly dressed man wanly smiling as he fixed himself at the gold throne’s right hand.
Ivan’s right hand.
His grip tightened, lips involuntarily curling as he drank in the sight of the smugly smirking Russian, all smooth poise as he radiated assurance.
It was the first time in nearly fifteen years he had seen the monster.
And the desire for vengeance had never burned hotter.
Briefly allowing his eye to close, he focused; he couldn’t let himself get worked up. He didn’t want to make any careless mistakes. Taking a breath, he returned his view to the window.
What he saw made his breath audibly catch.
In the middle of the reflective floor lay a crumpled, broken blonde; shining lenses, cracked and split, trembled as the man tried to hoist himself up on his emaciated arms, shuddering with wheezes and coughs.
It was Matthew.
And Alfred had a gun.
The guests, their bloodthirsty stares focused on the American alone, didn’t see the vile shadows that danced in the Master General’s eyes, the crazed grin that tweaked his lips as he watched the show, fingers steepled into ebony towers.
“No, no, no, no!” Toris furiously cursed as he pressed himself closer to the glass. Alfred was beginning to show the signs of strain, his shaking gaze the telltale sign. The brunette began to pray, plead, that he wouldn’t do it-he couldn’t;
Because then they would have to go to Plan B.
“Mein Gott,” Ludwig said from behind him, his voice incredulous, “It’s Matthew-I thought-we didn’t even think he was alive-”
“He’s not going to be for much longer if this isn’t stopped!” Toris whispered frenziedly, nervously; Plan B was only a precaution, and was much too dangerous to implement unless in an extreme emergency, the final resort.
It was then he saw the Canadian whisper, the barest moving of chapped, scabbed lips; the Lithuanian saw Alfred’s face crack, his expression shattering into disbelief and raw hurt. He could almost hear the switch, the rapid degeneration into the other American.
Click.
Pushing himself away from the glass, he quickly sped away from the large window, almost immediately turning as he pulled his gun; firing two shots through the pane, Toris broke into a sprint, ignoring the German’s alarmed cries as he shielded his head protectively and rammed into the glass.
It splintered into innumerable pieces, glimmering shards falling like rain as he tumbled into the ballroom, tucking into a roll to lessen the impact. A few shrill screams broke the silence as he tumbled in, the guests quickly rushing back in fear at the abrupt entrance.
The brunette stood, feeling excess crystal fragments slip from his locks as a wild grin suddenly manifested on his face.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen; we’re tonight’s entertainment.”
As if to validate this, windows throughout the expansive space exploded, reinforcements pouring in through now serrated panes. Attendants scattered like grain in a summer wind, pressing against walls, apprehension marring their opulence-nurtured features. The seven teams quickly organized behind their leader, whose revolver was trained on the source of all their problems.
Ivan’s demented grin only widened.
“Dear Liet,” the Russian purrred, violet irises tinged with darkness, “What a pleasure; tell me: how is your eye?”
“We’re not here to talk, Ivan,” Toris informed, aim never faltering as he brushed off the jab, “We’re here to end this; we won’t take your tyranny any more.” A soft chuckle was his response.
“Oh really?” the elder country questioned, clearly amused, “I think my partner would disagree.”
Alfred barely registered the acknowledgement, his face strangely blank as hollow, glassy eyes looked in the vague direction of his captor’s voice; the gun was still trained on his limp twin, who was curled into himself on the floor, using what little energy he had left to glare at his brother.
“Tell me, my patriot,” Ivan hummed, the musical inflection in his tone eerily disturbing, “Such an interruption should be duly punished; a reminder through that bleeding heart of his would be appropriate, da?”
The American at first said nothing, appearing to be engrossed with the firearm that fit snuggly in his hand. He tilted his head slightly, as if in contemplation, half-lidded gaze far away and unseeing.
“Appropriate; it is appropriate for such things. Mother is right, always right,” Alfred murmured, nearly incoherently as he slowly switched the aim to the brunette. The pair stared at each other for several beats, the Lithuanian’s sight filled with worry and easily breakable trust.
“America,” Toris pleaded, his voice soft and gentle, “Please; this isn’t who you are, isn’t who you want to be. You promised.”
Ivan’s eyebrows arched in surprise as his face eased into a grim scowl, eyes flashing with angry shadows.
“What does he mean, my rebel? Surely what he implies is false, da?” The elder country wrapped his arms around the blonde’s waist, hot breath tickling the latter’s ear.
“You would never betray Mother, would you?”
Inhale.
“America, please!”
Exhale.
“You would tell Mother if there were other things bothering you-other memories-”
Inhale. Exhale.
“America, don’t listen to him! We believe in you!”
Inhale. Exhale.
“No-I know you would never trust someone who killed your beloved England; isn’t that right, my sweet Liet?” Ivan chuckled darkly, smirking, “You were the one to kill his much beloved Arthur, da?”
“Amer-” Toris began until the Russian’s comment registered; he visibly paled, his mouth suddenly very dry as his sight faltered, gloved hands trembling. Alfred, his breathing now labored, regarded the brunette with a sense of horrified shock and quickly building anger.
“Can you deny it, dear Liet?” Ivan pressed, grin only widening at the man’s incredulous astonishment.
“Toris?” the brunette heard Kiku question almost inaudibly from behind him; this was a misunderstanding: their leader couldn’t have possibly-
A sad smile twitched at the corners of the Lithuanian’s lips; there was no choice now.
Plan B was a go.
Raising the revolver, Toris tapped the metal against his veiled eye, the mournful expression still in place.
“I suppose we’re even; aren’t we, America?”
Several things happened.
Toris rushed the stairs, steps quick and fluid as he focused his aim straight between the Master General’s gleaming eyes; the team leaders reached out for him, hands outstretched as the brunette bolted, cries muted and garbled in their leader’s ears, and Ivan was smiling all the while-
And then there was a gunshot.
When time returned, silence engulfed the room, the painful quiet nearly deafening; smoking tendrils swirled from the cooling gun, the cloudy wisps dissipating into the air.
A shaky hand fumbled across a heavily-clothed breast, the coarse grey fabric now being dyed with blooming scarlet; fingertips came away wet with crimson, the sticky substance trailing down his palm. His single eye was wide with surprise, disbelief as his gaze met Alfred’s, a single tear slipping away unnoticed.
“A-America…”
And then emerald slipped beneath the cover of a fleshy lid, lashes fluttering against experience-lined cheeks; the body swayed momentarily before falling forward, as if in slow motion, before crumpling onto the stairs, hand still gripping the cocked revolver.
It was then that coherency returned.
Trickling back slowly, Alfred felt the warmth even before he realized he was crying; his breath lay dead in his chest, his lungs tight with choked tears as salty streaks marked his flesh.
“T-toris?”
No answer.
Letting out a pained wail, the blonde fell to his knees, shaking fingers buried in his golden locks as his frame pulsed with wracking sobs. Allowing the gun slip from his limp grasp, he clawed at the floor with the free hand, glad when blood was drawn.
“TORIS!” the American wailed, his heart utterly shattered as he watched his nails being ripped to pieces by the marble.
What had he done?
And then there was laughter; rich, dark, horrible laughter that seemed to be permanently burned into his consciousness.
“It seems as if my patriot was smarter than I gave him credit for,” Ivan said, bursts of demented chuckles interspersed in his speech, “but it appears as if the bad influence has been eliminated,” he finished, the stressed word only increasing the fervor of Alfred’s feverish cries.
Turning away from the scene, Ivan faced his throne, arms raised towards the heavens as he chortled.
“I can not be beaten! The sun will never set on the Republic!”
It was as if the laughter would never stop.
And then something cold, metallic was pressed against the back of the Russian’s neck, the sound of a trigger being jiggled causing these mirthful expressions to die.
And then the dead spoke.
“I think it’s just about time for you to shut the fuck up.”