Missing Puzzle Pieces

England found France just standing shy of the edge of the property impatiently tapping his foot. Upon catching sight of England, he clicked his tongue and started walking ahead, speaking over his shoulder as he went.

'What took you so long?'

England jogged to close the gap between them and wordlessly held up the phone charger.

France huffed in derision. 'And of what use is that to us here, in the forest?'

'Oh, fuck off.' England stuffed the charger into his pocket. 'Maybe I intend to strangle you with it.'

France shook his head and muttered under his breath, increasing his pace to a jog.

After they'd gone on for a few minutes in silence they stopped behind a large tree and waited, listening out to hear if anyone was following them. The only thing they could hear was the soft rustling of the trees in the wind.

'That felt dangerous.' France whispered to him, putting down his bag and rolling his shoulder.

England made a noise of agreement. 'I heard another door just as I was leaving the house, although whether it was from someone entering or leaving I couldn't tell.'

France worried his lip. 'That was close.'

'Too close. It was like the perfect ambush.' England stared hard in the direction of the house, eyes darting about the trees to make sure that they'd missed nothing. 'That was such a terribly inexperienced mistake to make. What on earth were we thinking.'

'Our current problem', France said, 'is that we seem to be constantly underestimating who we're up against. This is a real threat, not some regular human conflict.'

England nodded. 'We've potentially got to treat them as we would one of our own kind.'

'More so', France added, 'at least with our own kind we know who they are and how they operate. These are children who don't know how to play an adult's game.'

'Quicklings never do follow predictable patterns.' England muttered. Sighing, he turned away from the house and looked into the forest. 'Where is the nearest cafe or somewhere which would have power sockets we could use?'

France waved his hands in dramatic exasperation but spun around, trying to align himself. He gestured sharply in front of him. 'There's a small village that way, they'd probably have something.'

England kicked France's bag with his foot. 'Off we go then. No point standing around here.'

'What about the car?'

'What about the car, Francis? What on earth do you want me to do? Go back for it?'

France muttered darkly to himself before looking skyward in resignation. 'I hate you. I hate this, I hate what we've been thrown into, I hate this god damn bag, I hate your ugly clothes, but most of all I do truly want you to know how much I loathe you.'

England clapped him on the shoulder grimly. 'At least it's mutual.'

England sat in thoughtful silence a few hours later, nursing a very strong and bitter black coffee. In his opinion, there were few things that France as a nation could be relied upon to do well, but at least one of those was the ability to sell good cups of coffee regardless of where one was. The restaurant they were in was nondescript and plain, yet so very French that England wanted to do nothing more than to escape back outside and avoid speaking to anyone. Especially, France himself.

Said travelling companion was currently sulking. He was sat opposite England, a cup of somehow even more bitter coffee in hand, and was refusing to look at him. France when pissed off was, on the rare occasions that England himself wasn't the cause, was quite an amusing thing to behold. A very talkative and expressive person, France found it extremely difficult to maintain a stubborn silence, regardless of how much he tried. He'd alternate between making his feelings of upset known by attempting to ignore the person until, before long, he'd burst with pent up emotion and betray himself. Then, he'd refuse to talk once more, and the cycle would repeat.

Currently, France was successfully ignoring him, for which England was grateful. They'd had a rather heated argument on the way here about the next cause of action and still nothing had been decided. Surprisingly, England was oddly calm. He couldn't tell if that was because he was now so stressed that he'd reached a new plane of panic and had retreated into apathy, or whether he'd somehow managed to convince himself that, some way or another, they'd think of something and fix this rotten mess and everything would blow over. It was this attitude which had most likely sent France over the edge and they'd made it to the restaurant seconds before a physical brawl had broken out.

Next to him, Amélie's phone sat dead but charging and England studied it with disinterest whilst taking a sip of his coffee. He heard France give an annoyed puff of air through his nose and saw him shaking his head out of the corner of his eye, but wisely chose not to comment. Instead, he held the power button and tried to wake the thing up. It was old, with a typical terrible battery, and needed to be charged before it would even think about turning on. Luckily though, it seemed that now was finally time and the screen came to life. He gave a small 'huh' and sat back against the seat with it, noting France trying not to look his way.

Thankfully, it needed no password. Despite being very adept at codebreaking, England knew that were the phone to be locked, they may as well have given up. He thanked his lucky stars that at least this one thing had a positive start. And quickly set about connecting the device to the Wi-Fi network.

Immediately, a flood of notifications came in. He looked up in time to catch France looking impatiently at it before turning quickly away again to stare out of the window, feigning disinterest. England rolled his eyes and downed his coffee, savouring the burn in his throat. He heard the anticipated tut of disgust from France and grinned, before picking up the phone again.

Most of the notifications were from Facebook. Tagged photos, birthday alerts and event reminders- there wasn't much of interest. Even Messenger held little of importance, though England committed some names to memory for potential future use. Once through checking the other social media accounts attached to the phone, he set about searching through the phone's SMS, which had fewer chats and which seemed less frequently used. One, however, immediately piqued his interest.

'Charlie'

Ah, there we go. The brother.

Charlie-

are we actually doing this?

Amélie -

fuck I don't know

Amélie -

fuck

Amélie-

jesus

Amélie -

stop texting me about it

Hmmm, that sounded interesting. They were dated from a day before Francis' attempted murder. England scrolled up a bit further.

Charlie-

Is he there?

Amélie -

Yeah, until the plumbing's fixed

Charlie-

won't that get in the way?

Amélie -

It'll be fine

Amélie -

we could tell him?

Charlie –

don't start that again

Amélie -

He'll be on our side

Charlie-

stop talking about it, i'll call you after work.

Well, that implied that whomever it was who stayed at Amélie's must have not only known her and her brother personally, but also was unaware of what was going on. They could have been pulled into it though, judging by Amélie's message, however that wasn't solid enough to go by. Either way, there was another person potentially involved.

Scrolling back further, he began to fill in some more blanks.

Charlie-

did you get it?

Amélie-

Yes!

Amélie -

start Tuesday :D :D :D

Charlie-

congrats! We can go to a nearby cafe for our lunch break

Amélie -

I'm so excited, it seems like a lovely place

Amélie -

thanks for the referal 3

Charlie-

they would have taken you regardless :)

Bingo. That solved how the two siblings ended up at the home together and also confirmed that the two together were the ones responsible for at least some of what happened to Francis. Exactly what, how and why, however, were no closer to being solved.

Back in the main menu, England found a chat from an unknown number that was just as irritatingly helpful as it was helpless.

Xxx-xxx-xxx-xx-

I'm so sorry to drop this on you suddenly, but one of my pipes has just burst

xxx-xxx-xxx-xx-

don't feel like you have to, but it would help me out so much if I could stay with either your or Charles. Obvs ur closer to work but any help would be greatly appreciated.

Amélie-

Oh my god! Of course, no worries!

Right. So, someone else from the home was the person staying in Amélie's spare bedroom. Now, either they'd left again on the day Amélie was murdered, or they would be due to find her body. They also must be fairly close personally for this unknown person to ask for such a favour.

England put the phone down and steepled his fingers together, resting them on his face.

The timeline thus far, from what he could make out, was this:

Amélie gets a job at the home because of her brother.

A few days before the attack on Francis, someone comes to stay at Amélie's house. They're another member of staff and have a close/ friendly relationship with both Amélie and her brother.

Amélie and her brother allude to doing something, most likely the attack on Francis, beforehand and on the day of the attempted murder

Charles tries to kill Francis, the night England himself returned to the home.

Someone, somehow, carries Charles' body back to his family home. This must have happened on the night, the police mentioned nothing of a dead body found at the home and, suspiciously enough, not even blood left behind at the scene. They were sure to know it wasn't Francis' blood by his medical records. The silence was noteworthy, but potentially unimportant.

Amélie carries on for a while, about four days. Does she continue work at the home? Does she know about her brother? She must know, if they'd planned something and he never returned. She would have known the minute, surely. Did she carry him to his house? Or the other person?

The important question from this point was: did she stay at the home, or did she run. England had been checking news reports and not even a mention of himself had been made public, therefore it was highly possible she had also never returned. Either way, she'd lived for a few more days. Was this lack of public information an orchestrated cover-up, or just the police being cautious?

Yesterday, Amélie was shot. This cannot have been the brother, quite obviously.

England kneaded his forehead. So many questions that they had still no way of answering. At least a bigger picture was forming, England could start to map things, wade his way through the timeline to see what went wrong and where. One thing already was starting to nag at him more and more.

A week before the 'murder', just as Amélie and Charles were beginning their plans, staff members at the home started taking ill.

Now, England wasn't much a fan of coincidence. He liked facts, he liked evidence, and he liked reason. Even the mythical world had rules, albeit different ones, and this was far too much of a coincidence to ignore, regardless of how far fetched it seemed. Could the siblings have had something to do with the staff being ill? After all, the attempts on the case only started to increase in severity after England himself had left- was he targeted too? Certainly, Amélie and her brother had no part in the flooding of Kent, but was that just good timing on their part?

Which lead to a bigger question: was it his absence which had prompted their attack, or was his leaving merely their good fortune? Illness was a difficult thing to stage, after all, but it seemed too good to be true that both happened at the same time, just as they'd started planning.

England gave a frustrated sigh. He wished he'd paid more attention during that week. What had been wrong with the staff members? What were their symptoms? It made even less sense for the whole home to be a part of this operation, it was highly unlikely that they're all planned to be sick that week for the sole purpose of stealing France's case. But then, how? It made sense, less witnesses after all. But damn it, why hadn't he paid more attention!

Across from him, France irritably tapped his foot, watching impatiently as England had grown more and more worked up.

'Well?'

England looked up. 'Hmmm?'

France scowled at him, 'You know full well what.'

'Sorry, not sure that I do.'

France shot him a dark look and England managed a sly grin, passing him the phone, feeling in some cheap way like he'd won something.

After a long moment of scrolling, France nodded and put down the phone.

'So,' he said, 'either there is another person, or more, whom we know nothing about that helped with the cover up and assault, or the person who stayed at Amélie's somehow became involved.'

England nodded. 'That's what I got from it.'

'At least, helpfully for us, this unknown seems to be covering up loose ends.'

'That means us as well.' England pointed out.

'Naturally. But the use of damage control can only work in our favour.'

England span his debit card between his fingers. 'I've realised something else which may add to that.'

France listened in silence whilst England filled him in about his theories for the staff, waiting until he was done before slumping back in his chair.

'And we have no way of knowing without going back to see.' France said, one hand covering his eyes.

England sighed. 'We need to go back to the home.'

France nodded once, carefully. 'Contact one of your brother's first, we need to leave a trail.'

England made a face but did so, reluctantly entering Wales' number. Holding the phone to his ear, he listened for a few seconds before swearing.

'Her plan has been suspended.'

'Fuck!' France gripped his hair. 'Sign in on Messenger? No, wait, don't, it'll-'

'Leave a trace,' England finished for him. 'Quite obviously, I'm not that stupid.'

'Okay. It seems we're going to have to go in alone. We'll sneak in at night.'

England shook his head. 'Again.'

Scotland didn't like Mexico. Or, rather, he didn't like Mexico when it was this hot. He would have thought that, by now and after all these centuries, he'd be used to weather warmer than his own. At the rise and height of the British Empire, after he'd joined the union with England and Wales, he was often sent off to oversee and sort affairs in the colonies and, more often than not, they were hotter than what he was used to. Personally, he didn't see what his brother was complaining about- England was a lot hotter and far milder than his own highland weather and there was really no need to go off every time and come back with another sunny climate attached to his purse. Heck, none of his brothers could even cope properly when they had their own rare, once a year, heatwaves; despite faring better England still burnt and crisped after too long in the sun and Wales just became impossible to deal with. The stupid clothing customs of the past meant stuffy thick clothing which was bad enough, but coupled with having to strut about outside in an Australian summer…

Well, fuck that for a game of soldiers, he was glad he didn't have to do that anymore.

That wasn't to say Scotland had gone abroad unwillingly, though. He enjoyed the warmth of the sun as much as anyone and modern-day conveniences like air conditioning made travelling in heat a lot more pleasant, but that didn't mean that he had to enjoy it. The heat made him feel uncomfortable in his clothes and made him irritable and crabby and God forbid if someone asked him to go outside.

Currently, he was sat in a small cafe outside the UN building trying to sit himself in a way that wouldn't leave behind too much of a sweat patch. He tugged at the collar of his shirt uselessly and took a large swig of his chilled lager, checking his phone to see how long of a lunch break he had left.

He looked up and scowled at his younger brother, sprawled on the sofa opposite. 'Jesus North, take the bloody jacket off, would ya?'

North glanced up briefly from his phone to raise an eyebrow before giving his attention back to his screen. 'I'm fine.'

Scotland huffed. 'You're making me hotter just looking at ya. Didn't you bring anything other than black? And get yer feet off the table for Christ sake, we're in public.'

He swatted at Northern Ireland's foot and received a small sigh for his efforts. Scotland knew he sounded horrible like England but the heat was making him short tempered and he was starting to run out of patience with his youngest sibling. He didn't want to sound like an old man, but North was on that darn phone far too much and he didn't like it. The whole reason North was here in the first place was because Scotland had reasoned that the boy needed exposure to their own kind- too much time chatting to humans for his liking. North and Sealand were the only ones to grow up with all this luxury and, seeing as there wasn't much he could do about Sealand, he'd do his damn best to get North out of his shell. It wasn't right to be so involved with humans.

He watched North pound his fingers over the blasted thing for a few more minutes before reaching forward and grabbing it.

'Hey! Give that back!'

Scotland slipped it into his trouser pocket. 'You'll get it back when I've actually seen you talk to someone. You've been here for days and you've spoken to no one but me or Alex.' (1)

'I have been talking to people!' North sat up indignantly. 'I've been talking to my friends!'

Scotland leant forward and lowered his voice. 'You know what I'm on about. Now, you remember what we agreed? You promised you'd try.'

'I have tried.' North sat back again and crossed his arms, staring sulkily out of the window. 'Rhys thinks it's good that I've got human friends and Arthur doesn't mind.'

'Well, Rhys is too soft, Arthur's an idiot and neither of them are here, are they?'

North glared and pulled his hood up.

'Aw for fuck sake, don't do that, you'll overheat.' North ignored him and put his feet back on the table.

Clenching his teeth, Scotland got ready to scold him when he felt his own phone ring. He frowned at Wale's name and answered, feeling North's eyes on him.

'Aye?'

It took him a second to interpret that the frantic babble he heard were actually Welsh words and not just nonsense. 'Woah woah, slow down. What the hell's wrong with you?'

North scoffed. 'Who died in Emmerdale?'

Scotland ignored him. 'Rhys? Hello?'

'Fuck Scotland, it's been fucking days and I have no idea where they are. They took hardly anything with them and no one's picked them up and I can't get word from the governme-'

'Okay now hold yer horses, you're going to have to start things again. I can't understand you.'

Wales took a shaky breath. 'England, I can't find him. I've looked everywhere but I can't get hold of him or France.'

'Wait,' Jesus, it was too hot for this, 'what do you mean you don't know where they are?'

'They went back to France.'

'Why the fuck did they do that?' Scotland saw Northern Ireland perk up curiously.

'Because there was something wrong with his case or something and they think the person who killed France 80 years ago was the one who tried to kill Francis- the human one- and-'

'Aye okay, I don't give a shit about that. Why are you worried? So, he's gone off grid for a while, he's done it before.' Annoyingly enough, he thought to himself bitterly. Just like England to fuck off once a century or so and leave them to pick up the workload.

'Because he died /there/ and when they left they didn't take anything and I've not been able to get hold of him since he before he died and now it's been days and I've called so many God damn hospitals and morgues but there's been no sign of him.'

'But France can handle it, surely?'

'That's just it! Why aren't you fucking listening?' Wales hissed at him from down the phone, 'I can't get hold of France either and they weren't planning on going to his government until /after/ they found the case. No one knows where they are.'

Scotland shook his head in confusion. 'Okay, but-'

'Lord, are you dense? If he were okay he'd call- he knows we'd feel him die. He hasn't been in contact at all which meant that he probably can't.'

Ah, bollocks. Scotland groaned. 'Jesus Christ. He could be in some body bag somewhere. Bollocks.'

He heard Wales tut at him. 'Alright there, shitbag, don't get all high and mighty on me. Why the fuck didn't you think to tell me this before? We could be looking at a national cover up if he wakes up in the middle of a police lab somewhere.'

Wales groaned. 'I thought I could fix it, or I thought he'd call or France would handle it. I didn't expect them both…' He trailed off. 'They could both be in trouble for all we know. He's not dead at the moment, but for him not to call…'

Scotland could hear Wale's worry and he could feel it bleed through the phone and affect him too. 'Now don't jump to that, he probably just forgotten or France is pissing about.'

This was a lie, though whether it was to make himself or Wales feel better he didn't know. If there was one thing England was reliable for, it was being a stickler for remembering the correct procedure of pretty much everything. That, and having a horribly accurate memory.

Scotland glanced back at North and caught him fiddling with the tassels of his hoodie, looking worried. 'I'll work on it from this end. You let our government know and keep ringing those police stations and hospitals. He'll turn up eventually.'

'Okay. Will do. Talk to you later.'

'Talk to you later. And for fuck sake stop worrying.' With that, he hung up.

Reaching back into his pocket, Scotland retrieved North's phone and threw it at him. 'Here have that back, I need you to hack into Arthur's online backing and see if you can figure out where his card was last used.'

North blinked at him.

'Aw don't look at me like that, I know you already know his bank details.'

North gave a sheepish smile. 'You won't tell him, will you?'

'Nah, it'll teach him to stop trusting you with the internet.'

Northern Ireland laughed, but stopped and looked at his brother's hands, concerned. Scotland followed his eyeline and realised he was cracking his fingers. Forcing himself to relax, he wove them together.

'Is he alright?' North asked.

Scotland shook his head and downed the last of his lager. 'He won't be when I get my hands on him.'

'What do you reckon?'

France turned to look at England. 'It's not as if we have much choice, is it?'

England just looked at him. 'Oh, I'm sorry, let's just knock on the front door, shall we?'

'Don't be ridiculous'

'So, you admit we have some leeway in how to approach this?'

France clenched his fists and successfully withheld the urge to punch England right between the eyes. It wasn't worth it, it wasn't worth it...

Not only had it been another long journey in a rental car down here, but it had been a while since they'd spent this much time together without someone else to distract them, and things were starting to grate. Being in the home didn't count either; Francis, though he was beginning to take on more and more of France's own personality as he aged, didn't harbour the many centuries of irritating history that was France's life with England.

The house they were hiding behind was one of the ones surrounding the actual ground of the home. Small pockets of trees could provide cover on the approach, but security would either be far tighter now, or the home would have been cleared of residents to allow for the police investigation. England's aim was to get in and compare the phone number on Amélie's phone to those on the staff roster, but France knew that they'd need a next step. So, what if they found the number? It proved only that they had another lead to follow, which usually would be good, but France had the distinct feeling that time was running out.

They eventually decided that France would try the main front door, whilst England would hide nearby. If there was anyone there, France could pretend to be a relative desperate for information and could get himself inside that way, despite it being just after visiting hours. England, however, would judge his next course of action in response.

It was quiet.

It wasn't that late at night, but they were in a residential neighbourhood with mostly retired couples or young families, so the quiet wasn't unexpected. But something in France's subconscious was ringing an alarm bell for something and France hadn't lived this long by ignoring it.

Although very aware that this was strategically terrible idea, France made himself walk brazenly up to the door and pushed the buzzer, only to receive no answer. He waited a minute, listening for approaching footsteps, before trying again. Nothing. Raising an eyebrow, he appraised the buildings again. There were no lights on anywhere he could see, which was telling in itself, but no cars in the car park. No cameras seemed to be on. No one on reception.

Truthfully, they'd both expected and hoped the home to be free of residents, but to be free of everyone, well. That was a problem. There should be some form of security he could talk to, which in turn would give him and idea of numbers and how difficult this whole procedure would be. But, no one? Fighting the urge to turn back, France rang the bell again. This was, quite clearly, a trap. Most likely, a big one. But, there was always that nice and slim chance that there really was no one there, and he and England could both sneak in and take a look around. The cameras being turn off, however, told him that this probably wasn't going to happen. They were never that damn lucky.

One more ring.

Still nothing. France turned back around and looked for where England had said he'd wait and found him watching proceedings from behind a bush. Gesturing with his head, France beckoned him over before turning back to the door and trying the handle.

Locked.

France doubted that there'd be the option of finding a spare key this time.

'Empty?' Said England, from over his shoulder.

'Presumably.'

'Brilliant.'

'Do you know, I honestly can't tell if you mean that sarcastically or not.'

England gave him a flat look. Reaching into his jeans' pocket, he produced a key and wordlessly tried it in the door.

'How in actual heaven's name do you have that.'

'My spare in case reception were away from the door after hours.'

France slapped him on the shoulder. 'Did you not think to mention this to me earlier?'

England yelped before attempting to stand on France's toe in retaliation. 'I didn't honestly think it'd be left empty.'

France shushed him and held up a hand. 'You hear that?'

England listened. Through the now ajar door, a soft whirring could be heard.

'This is so very much a trap.'

'I'm aware, Francis.'

'I know, I just wanted to tell you again so that I can place full blame on you later.'

They both stood there for a moment, listening.

'Right.' England nodded to himself. 'Let's get on with it, shall we?'

France sucked in air through his teeth and walked in, England close behind.

Shutting the door behind them before setting off, they made their way along darkened corridors in silence. Picking up a phone on the way, France noted that the lines were also dead and mentioned this to England, who rolled his eyes. Of course they were cut. Putting it back gently, France frowned. This was such a terrible idea. No one knew where they were, they had no backup plan, and they were both very aware they were walking right into enemy hands, an enemy who knew far too much already. But, as they'd both agreed, what other choice did they have? At least this way they had slight control of the situation by being prepared for the attack. It was also a sure-fire way to locate their mark without wasting time. They know knew for certain that they were on target, rather than stumbling about in the woods with no clue what to do or where to go next.

The mere thought of that made France's blood boil. A mere human or two had sunken him that low. Made him, even briefly, turn and flee. He had been chased. The mere notion was an insult. The idea that he had felt fear from such a pathetic enemy was degrading. This was an embarrassment to them both, more so if the enemy knew who they were up against. The disrespect of having the idea itself would be reason enough to anger England, but not even Italy, usually so cheerful and forgiving of human behaviour, would accept this.

Their response behaviour to all of this was shameful. So many mistakes, all at once. Never underestimate. Always think ahead. Pick your battles.

England hissed at him to get moving.

The whirring ahead was faint, but grew steadily louder the further they walked in, maintaining a steady hum. Despite his anger, he felt an odd mixture of emotions being here. At the same time, it was both comforting and sad. It was strange, to be back at the home again. Everything was so familiar, yet so different. It felt akin to remembering a memory, one that you'd recalled it enough times that it became more dreamlike with each remembering. He could remember being here, of course, but not as himself and he experience an odd disassociation towards the place. All at once, he had walked these halls, and yet he had not. He had years of memories of being years here, yet he himself had never set foot inside before. He had lived and breathed here, built relationships and mourned a lost life, all of which France himself hadn't lived. He usually made a point to not return to the places which his recent Reset-self had lived until a good few decades had passed, as he disliked the yearning he always felt whenever he did. The yearning for a life gone, a life he could remember but never tangibly experience. He wasn't human, he could never have a human life. Yet, passing the common room and kitchen, he certainly felt as though he'd lost one.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice England stop suddenly and collided with his back, causing the other nation to jolt forwards.

England swatted him indignantly, but when France drew himself up, affronted, England held up a hand to stop him. Pressing a finger to his lips, he motioned across the lounge, towards the corridor at the other end. There, a dim pool of light emanated from an open door, making the shadows in the hallway stretch long and thin up the walls. With a twist of anger, France realised that it was Francis' old bedroom. No need to guess what was in store for them there.

The two nations looked at each other. France motioned with his eyes and England nodded, and signalled that he'd go for the far side of the door, skirting around the walls as much as he could.

Of course, France thought to himself, I'll just go first then, shall I?

As they drew closer, it became apparent that the odd whirring noise was coming from within the room, metallic and dusty. A generator. France frowned. Was the mains electricity shut off as well then? What had happened to this place?

The lights were bright from inside the room.

France was about to go across to the other side of the door, just as England moved into position beside him, when the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked audibly broke the stifled silence.

'Ah, they're here.' A quiet voice from inside the room said. 'Move into the doorway, please.'

France looked at England. The other man nodded grimly. They'd tried, they had known this would happen. They had never had a chance of success, from the moment they knew that the home had been abandoned.

Together, they moved into the doorway, squinting in the harsh light of a lamp aimed directly into the hall.

'Both of you! Gentlemen, I'm pleased that you've come.'

France stared, comprehension blooming in his head, as he caught sight of the person within the room. Everything slipped into place.

'What-?' England sounded confused, not understanding the connection that France intrinsically knew. 'You?'

'Me.' Perched on Francis' old bed, in front of two chairs, Jean gave a jovial wave. He raised the gun in his hand and pointed it at England. 'Now, would you please take a seat for me? We've got a lot to discuss.'

(1) My personal human name for New Zealand

AN:
Hi there. It's been an awfully long time. I have no excuse, at first I got very distracted by another fic I wrote, Earthbound, and then life happened and I sadly now have far far less time to write than I used to. But, I will damn well finish this even if it kills me. Fandom death shall not stop me ha ha ha... ha.

God.

Thank you very much for anyone who has patiently waited for this to update, I have been guiltily thinking about it all year. Many thanks as well to my amino and tumblr friend Davy for prodding me along every now and again.

Before writing and posting this, I went back and heavily edited the previous chapters. There shouldn't be too much of a style/ writing change from those to this one, but if there is please leave me a comment and I'll get right to changing it. Despite its age and length, I'm trying my best to keep this consistent and I wholeheartedly accept critique and criticism for any piece of writing I do.

Hope to see you again sooner! I hope you have enjoyed this update, please do let me know what you thought. It helps to know that there's people out there to write for.

Thanks for reading 3