A/N: Spy stories are so much fun. :) For now, just a drabble. I don't know if I'll finish it, but for now… since I have lots of time, it being summer and all… full speed ahead! yeah!

1. amnesia

Francis Bonnefoy woke up suddenly after a long dream of nonsense.

Somehow he was lying on the floor, his head throbbing like mad. He carefully pried his eyes open, and blinked as the bright flourescent lights hit his pupils. There were voices and screaming around him, but they seemed far away, like he was hearing them underwater. What's going on? He was barely conscious of his body; it felt like he was watching through a dream.

Am I really awake?

He closed his eyes and focused on sensations. He seemed to be wearing a blazer, slacks, a dress shirt, and a tie. Why was he dressed so formally? And where was he? He opened his eyes and turned his head to the side.

What he saw shocked him. A pale man lay on the floor beside him, mouth slightly open, red eyes wide open. He wore an expression of shock… everone seemed shocked where he was. An open, round wound in his chest might've been the cause… it was pouring out blood, spilling on the floor.

Someone grabbed him by the lapels of his blazer, and hauled him up so he was on his feet. He cringed, the sudden change of his position made him feel dizzy. His vision blurred, his head felt faint, he thought he would tip over at any second, but the pool of red by the man lying on the floor kept his eyes in focus.. or maybe worse. It seemed to warp before his vision, growing bigger and sharper as if he were looking through a magnifying glass. As he watched, the blood spread across the clean white floor. He couldn't take his eyes off of it. It was just… so… dark. Maybe he'd been expecting for it to be, he didn't know… redder? It was always brighter in the movies, but here it was, in real life, the sharp irony tang hitting his nostrils and he couldn't get over it!

There was blood coming out of a man! And he wasn't moving!

Francis tried to put his hands over his face, to cover the image of that poor helpless man lying on the floor with blood pouring out of his chest, but realized that his hands were weighed down with lead. He looked down and there was a heavy metal object in his hands. What was it? It fit his hand well, with his index finger curled around a curved section. A cylinder thing extended out past his index finger and it gleamed darkly in the light. Francis felt chills run over his back, as if his body remembered what it was. Une arme à feu.

"Francis! Mi amigo!" Someone shook him from the back. "What are you doing?"

Francis realized that someone was still gripping him by the elbows and he turned to see a tanned man with curly bedheaded brown hair and eyes like two round green grapes. His features were open and innocent, and were twisted with worry and anguish.

"Francis!" he cried, using his hands to turn Francis around so that they were facing each other. "Answer me!"

Francis opened his mouth, but then he realized he didn't have anything to say.

The tanned man had started sobbing. "What are you doing, Francis? Why did you do this?"

Francis didn't know what he was talking about. "What did I do?"

The other man stopped crying and stared at Francis in shock. "Wha—you… don't… remember…?"

Francis frowned. "Should I?"

The tanned man let go of Francis. "How—what…"

Francis stared at him. "Did I do something?"

The tanned man only shook his head in astonishment, tears still running down his face. "Francis…"

"Get away from him." A new, commanding, British voice echoed throughout the room. Francis turned to see a smaller, petite man with short, shaggy blond hair and bright green eyes standing in the doorway of the room. He was dressed in a leather jacket and skinny jeans, and he held a device in his hand that looked a lot like the one Francis held. The most striking feature of the man, however, was his unusually thick eyebrows, which accentuated his piercing stare.

The tanned man let out a small gasp. "Unh?" he said in surprise.

"I said, get away from him." The British man advanced, his boots making clacking noises on the white tile. "I'm not afraid to use this." He raised the gun towards the tanned man.

The tanned man whimpered. "B-but Gilbert—"

"—is dead." The British man stopped at the dead Prussian's body, silently surveying the broken pale form, the still-open empty red eyes. He leaned down and passed a hand over Gilbert's face, closing his eyes. "You can't bring the dead back, Antonio."

The tanned man—Antonio—swallowed. "How did you know my na—"

His words were cut off by the Brit placing the gun at his throat. "Now, the police aren't here yet and everyone else has cleared out just cuz Gilbert's so ugly when he's dead. But unless you want to be dead too, then you will shut up."

Antonio gulped, and nodded without a word.

The blond man lowered his gun and nodded at Francis. "You, however, are going to come with me."

Francis frowned. "Why?"

The Brit set his mouth in a hard, firm line. He was obviously not used to being questioned. "Because you are! Now get your bloody arse over or I'll have to create another reason for you to freak out about." He eyed Francis's gun. "And put that on the floor, would you? I prefer to be the only one around here able to shoot someone."

Francis put the gun on the floor and followed the Brit out of the door.