The messages stopped shortly after the hospitals shut down.

They are a hazard – said the military – and in order to protect the general populous they must be removed. Too many people flocked there for shelter; they host too many bodies too close together and all too worked up with panic and fear.

The world went dark after that, and even with his connections Lieutenant Jones had no way to get in touch with the other side of the world anymore.

But then again, neither did anyone else.

The military tried to keep order for as long as they could.

But humans by nature were an insatiable lot. No matter how they tried – they weren't trying hard enough.

There weren't enough guns to go around. The military doesn't want to give up their weapons.

They weren't being fair with food distributions. They keep the best stuff for themselves.

They were too strict with who they let into their compounds. They'll shoot you down if you so much as cough.

The accusations built up – some paranoia and some justifiable – until the people rioted and turned against those who swore to protect them. It soon became harder and harder to distinguish the dangerous from the innocent. Massacre in communities became so happenstance, most learned it was best to take those who mattered most to them and try their luck away from crumbling civilization.

It was almost six years before the lieutenant ever found a way out.

He loved his home, no matter the time or the stress or the situation. He was proud of his heritage and proud of his people. He was proud of his brothers in arms – the loyal few who kept strong morals in the face of such chaos. He was proud of how hard they tried, even in the face of the bigotry their uniforms, weapons and experience attracted.

He was even proud of how well they'd done and how long they had lasted, a free-standing unit that struggled to preserve the sense of community.

But as supplies began to dwindle and people began to starve, one by one their communion trickled into the dust. Through death or separation, they were disassembled, stripped, and reduced to the bare bones of what they'd once been.

"It's probably the last one in the world."

"I can't take it."

"It'll get you there, but that's all the juice she'll have."

"You're not listening to me."

"Of course, the landing is finicky. I sort of had to improvise, but as long as you're not touchin' down on an incline it should hold up."

"I could never-"

"Alfred." The American stopped, his shoulders tightly gripped by the lanky old man who looked him dead in the eye. "There's nothing left for you here."

"You're here."

The elderly man cleared his throat with a hacking cough, turning away as he did. He took a few steps away until the fit passed, but did not re-approach.

"Not for very much longer, son."

"I'm not even sure if there's anything there for me, either," desperation drenched his words, but it went ignored.

"You owe it to him to try. He's family, and if you're anything alike, he'll still be there, lookin' for a way to fix this all."

Alfred tried to summon more words to argue with, but found his mind had blanked. The elder stared at him, his smile somewhat resigned, until a distant crash cut through the concrete clearing. He hobbled forward, turning Alfred and steering him towards the garage. There was little more conversation until just before the younger man would be ushered up to the cockpit. He turned to face the lanky elder, opening his arms wide.

But the man held up his hand.

"I care for you, boy, which is why you may have to settle with a goodbye wave."

Alfred shook his head and swept the man up into a tight embrace anyways.

"You know it doesn't matter."

"Just bein' cautious, son. Don't want your good luck to run out 'cause of me."

When the American pulled away, his smile and bright and optimistic and much more Alfred than it had been in a while.

"Impossible, my good luck reserve is bottomless."

The man laughed and laughed until his voice caught in his throat and he began to cough. Just as he had before, he turned around and moved away. He turned back to face the young man with an apologetic look.

"Sorry, Alfred. Force of habit."

But Alfred understood, and he climbed into the cockpit with only marginal reluctance. As he sat in front of the vaguely familiar controls, it all came back to him – like the memory of how to ride a bike.

"You take care o' yourself now, y'hear?"

But his voice was lost in the sound of the engine roaring to life, just as his screamed goodbyes were drowned when the plane rolled away, lifting off the ground only minutes later.

He waved his arms above his head wildly, watching the flight until that plane was only a distant speck high above the horizon. He lowered them to palm away the tears clouding his eyes and cleared his throat. The noise had drowned out a series of angry screams, but now that the source was distant the elder could hear them all clearly – loud and frantic and getting closer and closer.

He smiled, clicked his heels together, turned to a tattered flag still flying off the roof of the garage and saluted. He jerked his hand away and instead went to the waistband of his pants, withdrawing the concealed Beretta M9.

His only regret was that the taste of steel on his tongue would be his last.

On the bright side, the flight was relatively smooth and problem-free.

The landing?

Not so much.

He was almost surprised that he woke up at all, and he was admittedly less surprised by the fact that there was a woman banging her fist into the glass window of the cockpit. She shrieked something unintelligible at him, banging at the glass so hard the sides of her hands split open and painted the window with blood.

Irritated and disappointed in his welcome, the American unholstered his pistol and shot the woman between the eyes.

He leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath, feeling the ache of soon-to-be-bruises across his chest where the straps of his seat belt had dug into his flesh.

He didn't even flinch when a man threw himself over the window and writhed, clawing at the blood-smeared glass and screaming. He was stilled with another sigh and another quick pull of a trigger.

It was harder to open his cockpit with two corpses weighing it down. Alfred had to brace his back against the glass and crouch on his seat, pushing with his legs to generate enough force to free him. The bodies slid like bloody rag dolls over the side of his plane. The woman bounced off the torn wing before coming to a messy halt on the earth.

Only one of his wings was still intact, and the nose of the plane was flattened into the ground at an awkward angle. It would never fly again, but at least it had gotten him across the ocean at all.

There was also the plus of having survived a plane crash, but survival was so typical for him these days, he hardly gave it a second thought. The man ducked back into the cockpit one final time to retrieve his duffel bag from behind the seat and throw it to the ground. Following that, he began to lift himself out of the cockpit, grumbling at the effort and the stiffness of his limbs.

That stiffness was probably what made his fall so much worse than it could have been. The rim of the pit was slick with blood and his hand lost purchase against it. The palm of his hand was sliced open from the friction against the metal, and before he could stop himself he was tumbling over the side of the plane.

He landed in a heap just under the wing, beside the woman with a new hole in her head. He shoved her away with his foot, only to hiss in disgust as he noticed he'd caught his calf on a jutting strut. There was a nasty gash there that matched nicely with the one on his palm and he swore.

He had little patience for the man who came pelting out of the woods, sputtering and babbling. Three quick, consecutive shots into the chest and the man was down for the count. His momentum, however, carried him forward and his face smashed into Alfred's legs when he fell.

The American swore, kicking off the body and drawing his wounded leg in close, tutting at the messy smear of blood caused by the man's face.

"Oh good," he grumbled, looking from the gashes on his leg and hand to the corpses of those around him, "no surprises here, then."

He set his gun on the dirt beside him, nudging away the third man with his foot as he did. He shrugged off his jacket and tore off the sleeves of the shirt underneath. With a tired sigh, he habitually began to bind one of the sleeves around his bloody hand. He pulled the knot tight with his teeth and reached for the second sleeve.

"Don't fuckin' move!"

Alfred flinched at the noise. The wormheads were something he worried little about these days – but voices were a different story. Voices belonged to people and people were crazy.

He was stone still as his eyes flicked back and fourth, trying to pick out where that voice had come from in the trees.

"Put your bloody hands up!"

"Shit."

Alfred did as he was told, slowly raising his hands to the sky. It was only after he did that a man slunk out from behind a tree trunk. One man was easy to deal with – he could handle this.

At least, that was the thought until a second man stepped into the clearing. Then a third, and a fourth. It was only after six different men all had their weapons trained on him that Alfred accepted there was likely no more lurking in the foliage.

Six men, not as easy to deal with.

The first looked to the second, and nodded his head in Alfred's direction. The second man darted forward, dragging his bag and his jacket away from him along with his pistol. The third man came up and began to pat the American down, looking for concealed weapons.

When they were satisfied he was unarmed, all but two tucked away their weapons. Men numbers four and six kept their assault rifles pointed in his direction.

The first man looked to be the ring leader, but Alfred was only guessing by how he ordered the others around with gestures and angry grunts. They'd obviously held people up before, this was a well-oiled hostage-creating machine. It was the first man who spoke, further cementing his role as the leader in the American's eyes.

"Where the devil did you get a plane?!" He had a sloppy English drawl, and glared at Alfred with dark eyes.

"Friend of a friend." Though he was not lying, the ringleader did not like his answer. He nodded to the third man, who quickly stepped forward and kicked his injured leg hard.

The American cried out and swore violently, gripping the hair at the back of his skull. When he'd stilled his tongue, the ringleader spoke again.

"Where're you from?"

"New York."

"...American?"

"Yup."

The dark-eyed man narrowed his eyes, the beginnings of a snarl forming on his face. Man number five called out from where he and the second were searching his bag.

"He's got a shotgun in here, and a huntin' rifle!"

Those dark eyes flicked up to the cockpit.

"Any more weapons up there?"

"No, but you're gonna check anyways."

The man grunted, and motioned towards the plane. Man number two got up from where he scoured the duffel bag and began to climb up the dented side of the plane.

It was quiet until he popped up from within and shook his head.

"It's empty."

Those eyes were on him again.

"Wot're you doin' flyin' from New York to Liverpool?"

"Sightseeing. Thought it might be nice change of sc- Ow fuck!"

Alfred squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, his leg smarting where it had been kicked a second time. When he opened them again, he was staring down the barrel of a pistol. The ringleader crouched over him, his finger tense around the trigger.

"Listen here, you bloody yank. The only reason we haven't shot you already is 'cause you flew in on a fuckin' plane. We want some answers, but if you're gonna be a prick about it, 'm gonna lose my patience real quick and think it easier to just put a bullet between your eyes, yeah?"

Alfred frowned, pressing his head back into the side of the plane and disguising a nervous swallow.

"Pritchard," man number four hissed, and the ringleader turned his head. He followed the man's point to look down at Alfred's leg – more specifically, at the smear of blood along the ground that drew a crimson line from his open wound to the face of the corpse nearby. The ringleader stood suddenly, his weapon clicked as he stumbled away – but he kept it trained on him.

"Masks," he hissed. Two of the men pulled on dirty medical masks, while the rest pulled up scarves and bandanas that had been hanging around their necks. The ringleader was one of the men with a medical mask. He advanced again, aggressively, stopping when the told muzzle of his weapon was pressing into the crown of Alfred's skull. "Guess it don't matter either way, right? You're a dead man whether I shoot you now in the head or leave you to bleed."

For the first time since the entire confrontation began, Alfred felt a twinge of fear, amplified when the man pressed his gun even harder against his head.

"But I'm a gentleman at heart, an' we'll show you some British hospitality by sparin' you the torture and just shootin' you here."

Alfred heard a click, and he answered it with the only thing that might save him.

"I'm immune!"

The ringleader narrowed his eyes.

"Wot?"

"I'm immune," he repeated. The man laughed in his face.

"Bullshit, you can't pull one over on me, stupid yank, I know it 'aint a virus."

"I don't know what it is. Something to do with my genetics. I just don't make a good host."

The gun was tapped against his skull.

"You got a brain, yeah? That's good enough for the worms, innit?"

"I told you, I don't know what it is, but I swear I'm immune."

Two of the men standing nearby muttered to one another, and then one approached the leader and pulled him aside. Alfred was still at gunpoint from two others, so he did not move. He watched as the men spoke animatedly in hushed whispers.

The sinister looked the ringleader turned on him after made Alfred almost wish he'd just taken the bullet.

"I know a lady who would jus' love to sink her teeth into you."

As the men scoured his plane for supplies and salvaged what they could from the body, Alfred was left bound in a heap with his bag and jacket and one of the men stood over him, keeping a gun levelled with him at all times. He tried to kick up a conversation to ease the tension, but he was each time either ignored or told to shut his face.

So it seemed like complete Karma when a gunshot rang out over the clearing, tearing a hole through the man's chest where his heart would be. Alfred rolled away from the man as he clattered to the floor, but stayed prone in the dirt as the surroundings erupted with gunfire.

It was mostly the men shooting wildly into the trees, trying to hit an invisible target as they were picked off one by one, dropped by bullets tearing through their heads or hearts or throats. The ringleader screamed something until his jaw was blown off, then fell dead when a second bullet ripped through his head.

Alfred was still as a haunting silence descended over the scene of the carnage. It lingered for a full minute, before it was broken by a roar of laughter.

"Now see, lad, tha' is how it's done!"

The American was still and shut his eyes, playing dead and fearing that these people would be just as bad as the last. He watched through his lashes as a man lead the way into the clearing, a hunting rifle slung over his shoulders. He was followed by a boy – a young boy, which was surprising. He must have been ten or eleven years old, appearing unaffected by the carnage as he skipped out in front of his red-haired guardian.

"Whoa! Is this a plane?"

"Sure is, lad."

Alfred furrowed his eyebrows as he tried to place those accents. The child sounded British, though admittedly a little more proper than the ringleader had, while the man was loud and unmistakably a Scot.

"I can't remember the last time I saw one of these in real life!" The boy ran up to the flying machine and pressed his palms against the metal, looking up in awe. "D'you suppose you could fix it?"

"Nae, probably not."

The boy hummed thoughtfully.

"Well, d'you think I could at least climb inside?"

"Maybe later, boy, let's clean up 'round here first, see what th' beasts were plunderin'."

The boy made a disappointed sound, but pushed away from the place and turned over the nearest corpse. He watched as the pair visited each body, collecting guns and ammunition and whatever else was interesting. He and his former guard were the furthest from the plane, and the youngster checked them last while the Scot scouted around the wreckage.

Alfred held his breath as his deceased neighbour was patted down and lifted of his assault rifle and pistol. The boy set them aside, and looked to be about ready to search Alfred until his eyes fell upon the American's supplies, left in a pile by the man's feet.

"Whoa! Lookit this!" Alfred couldn't see what the boy had retrieved until he stood up, his arms open wide, wearing his favourite bomber jacket. He laughed, turning to check himself out, "how cool do I look?!" The American cringed internally, forcing himself to be still as the boy turned at last to him.

"Hang about," he said, "this one's all tied up, uncle!"

"Eh?"

The boy pulled out a knife, habitually going to cut the rope that bound the American's hands behind him. He then rolled the man on his back.

"He's bleeding too!"

"That's what happens when ye shoot people, boy."

"But-" Alfred's lungs were beginning to burn as the boy lifted his shirt and checked his body over "-there aren't any wounds on him from your rifle."

The American exhaled, aware that the Scottish man had whirled to face the pair. By the time the boy realized the man he leaned over wasn't dead, it was too late. Alfred sat up, wrapping his arm around the child's neck and squeezing the fist that clenched his knife. He forced the child's own blade up against his throat.

He shifted to his knees, dragging the boy with him as he shifted awkwardly – keeping the child between him and the Scot, who had brought the scope of his rifle up to his eye.

"Don't shoot!" The boy cried, and Alfred felt horrible.

"I second that," he called, safely shielded by his young hostage. "Don't shoot."

"Put th' lad down, an' maybe I won't," the Scot was slowly inching closer. Alfred grimaced, squeezing the child's hand until he cried out.

"Don't come any closer," he warned, and the Scot stopped dead just as he added a hasty "please!"

There was quiet as the man decided how to continue, and the Scot never once lowered his weapon.

"Look, I'm not a bad guy-"

"Says the man hiding behind a little kid," the boy interrupted, and Alfred could practically hear the pout in his tone.

"Hey-! I'm being honest! That's my plane there. I flew here in it, and after I landed I was ambushed by those guys."

"Where did ye get a plane?" the man asked, sounding more fascinated than annoyed.

"A friend of a friend."

"He got anymore of 'em stored away?"

"No, I'm afraid I took the last one."

The Scot mumbled something to himself and then raised his voice.

"So what's gonna happen, pilot? Ye said ye werenae a bad guy, but you're hidin' behind a ten-year-old."

"You know how it is: desperate times call for desperate measures."

"Aye."

The clearing was still until Alfred pushed the conversation to still.

"Look, if I let him go, will you promise not to shoot me? I didn't know if you guys were bad guys, after all."

"You don't see us hiding behind children, now do you?" grumbled the youth, and Alfred shushed him. It was tense in that clearing while the Scot mulled things over behind the scope of his rifle.

"I'll put down my rifle," he said at last, "an' ye best let the lad go."

"I swear I will."

"I'll kill ye otherwise."

"And that'd be totally fair by me.

The man held up his hands, slowly placing his rifle on the ground. He stood expectantly, and Alfred felt awkward.

"Uh... Could you just- Just take a few steps back? Some people are wicked fast to pick up their guns again, you know."

The man narrowed his eyes, but took a few measured steps backwards.

"Alright, thanks. Now I'm gonna let you go..." he spoke slowly, gradually loosening his grip and nervously watching for any sudden movements. What he wasn't expecting was for the boy to suddenly whirl and boot him hard in the groin.

He saw stars as he curled in on himself and fell over into the dirt, barely hearing the footsteps as the boy rushed to his uncle's side. Alfred rocked on the ground, squeezing his eyes shut and moaning. He wanted to demand what he'd done to deserve that, but he really already knew. It didn't make the pain any easier to deal with, though, and when he opened his eyes and looked up, he was once again staring down the barrel of a gun – the Scot's rifle, this time.

"Are you kidding me?!" he exclaimed. "I let him go!"

"What're ye doin' here? Where did ye fly from?"

The American sighed, stiffly pushing himself up to his knees.

"New York. I'm looking for my brother."

"Your brother?"

"Yeah. He came over here at the start of all this. He's some genius doctor. He was gonna work on an antibody with some of Europe's best and brightest. I haven't..." he trailed off, disguising the ache of his heart by wincing in pain and bending at the waist. "...haven't seen him in years, but I've sort of run out of people on the other side of the world. My friend of a friend gave me a way out. I just...I wanna know what happened. Someone still kicking around here ought to know something, right?"

He looked hopefully up to the Scot, momentarily forgetting about the presence of that rifle. The Scot returned the look, then slowly lowered his weapon.

"Y'know, someone jus' might, lad."

Alfred smiled.

"I'm gonna take ye tae my brother."

The boy looked up to his uncle in alarm.

"What?" He repeated himself when he didn't get an answer. "What?! Why?"

The Scotsman smiled knowingly and winked at the boy. He furrowed his eyebrows – Alfred noted than that the child's were quite bushy – and puffed out his cheeks. After a moment of deliberation, his face lit up.

The pair exchanged a look that meant something Alfred was not supposed to understand.

The Scot and the boy – introduced as Alistair and Peter respectively – guided him across the city, sticking to a path over the rooftops they'd obviously traversed many times before. They led him to what had once been an extravagant hotel, though after years of neglect it looked shabby and barren. They entered by crossing a steel plank from one rooftop to the eighth floor of the hotel, pushing aside a sheet of plywood that blocked the window that served as the entrance. He was lead up the stairs to the twelfth floor, surprised when they opened the door and revealed something that really didn't look like a hotel anymore.

Most of the walls had been knocked out, and the floor was mostly one big open space. There were a few tables and desks scattered here and there, surrounded by cheap folding chairs. The beds had been disassembled and converted into couches. There was a handful of people lingering in the large room, but for so much space it was pretty sparse.

"We used tae be larger in numbers," Alistair explained when he noticed Alfred's confusion.

They led him through the affectionately dubbed "common area" to where one room had been preserved. The Scotsman knocked twice, then lead the way inside.

"You're late." There was a man sitting behind a desk, surrounded by papers marked with numbers and names. "Who the hell is this wanker?"

"Good tae see ye too, brither."

"Don't brither me. Who the fuck is he?"

Alfred felt himself frowning. The man was cold and curt and his face was stuck in a permanent scowl. Those eyes – a dull, tired jade – flicked from the Scot to the stranger. The American noted that he shared the same bushy-as-all-hell eyebrows as Peter did, who'd been left out in the lobby with an orange-haired young woman.

"My name is-"

"I don't recall asking you," he was fixed with a nasty glare, and then ignored immediately after.

Alistair gave him an apologetic look out of the corner of his eye, then spoke for him.

"His name is Alfred," he said, "he flew over from America in a plane."

"Oh, is tha- Wait a plane?"

"Aye."

"Where did he get a plane?"

The pair exchanged a look, and Alistair responded with a shrug.

"A friend of a friend."

The lithe blonde scoffed. He began to grumble quietly to himself, making a note of something in his book. While the man was distracted, Alistair turned and smiled lazily at the newcomer.

"This pleasant human bein' is my wee brither, Arthur." He gestured with a fancy flourish of his hand to the Brit behind the desk, who stuck up his middle finger without looking up from his notes. "I promise ye, he's not always such a grouch – just most o' the time."

"Ah," Alfred grunted quietly. He lowered his voice, "and why did you want me to meet him?"

Alistair grinned.

"Arthur, he was hopin' ye might be able to help him find his brother."

"What do I look like, child services? He can find his own family."

"Charmin', is he not?" Alfred didn't feel comfortable answering that, even though he was jabbed in the ribs encouragingly with the Scot's elbow. Alistair crossed the room and hopped up onto the desk. He sat right in the middle, crossing his legs and grinning at Alfred, though he spoke to the blonde who faced his back. "Well, ye are the meticulous attendance keeper 'round here."

"Get your fat arse off my desk."

"Surely it wouldnae take too long fer ye to just check your records as tae who has come 'n gone."

"Do you want to die?"

"Must be horrible, Al, all on yer own, separated from yer family."

"Cry me a fucking river. Get off."

"What did ye say yer name was, Jones, was it?" he twisted to snatch his brother's notebook out of the blonde's hand. He flipped through the pages, leaning away from where Arthur reached around him to grab his book back.

"Well, yes, but his name is Williams. He's my half-brother." He paused as Alistair raised an eyebrow at him. "He's the only family I have left," admitted Alfred quietly, and the Scot nodded. He winked mischievously to the American, but continued to flip through his brother's notes. "Williams," he said again, "Matthew Williams."

The blonde suddenly stopped his angry attempts to grab the book forever being held out of his reach.

"Williams?" he echoed, furrowing those heavy eyebrows. He peered around the Scot to look Alfred up and down. "No wonder you look familiar. The resemblance is uncanny."

"You know him?"

"Knew," he corrected curtly, and Alfred's heart dropped. "It's been what, over four years since I last spoke with him."

Four years was still better than six.

"Where was the last place you saw him?"

The blonde narrowed his eyes.

"I don't remember."

"Donnae ye lie, Artie, mam taught ye better."

"You shut your ugly face, Alistair. Just what did you think you were doing, bringing a stranger in here?"

"Just 'cause ye have trust issues-"

"The whole bloody world has trust issues these days, don't even try that old excuse."

"Where's yer faith in humanity gone, wee one?"

"I have faith in humanity. I have faith that humans are a flawed, dysfunctional, violent, destructive race of people who would've blown themselves up, had mother nature not grown tired of waiting."

"You're a human, Arthur."

"And therefore I have an in-depth insight. Furthermore, his kind are the worst of the lot."

Alistair rolled his eyes and grinned again at Alfred, who could only watch the exchange and feel incredibly awkward. The worms were easier to deal with than this. He shifted uncomfortably, but his unease was ignored.

"Honestly, he's really quite the softie once ye get to know 'im."

"Mother must have drop kicked your head as a child."

"Donnae let the frosty shell deceive you, he's as cuddly and warm as a kitten on th' inside."

"I will feed you to the worms, Alistair."

"See? Proof that he's all bark an' no bite. He knows I can't get infected."

Alistair was shoved off the desk all at once with an annoyed huff, but he landed gracefully on his feet and swiftly moved away.

"Wait, you're immune?"

"Aye, lad, all the Kirklands are."

"Well just go and announce it from the rooftops, you twit." Arthur planted his hands against his desk and stood up, leaning over the wood as he added bitterly: "Not all of the Kirklands were."

"That's funny, my brother and I are immune too. Does that mean my whole family would have been?"

"No. Your siblings and your father, yes. The gene that deters this particular kind of parasite is passed down through the father."

"How do you know that?"

Arthur cast his eyes aside and scowled.

"I do my research."

Alfred ducked behind a rusted car, hearing bullets ricochet off the shell. His heart was racing in his chest and he could hear the shouts of angry men over the roar of a Gatling gun. Alistair was at his side in a moment, and the American shuffled over to give him more room.

"Still got it?" The American twisted to show his back and more importantly, the heavy pack he carried. "That's a good lad."

"Thanks for coming with me."

"It was a suicide mission otherwise, gettin' so close to the rats' nest."

The two waited for a pause in the shower of bullets, then dashed out from behind the car. The gun kicked back up again, but before it could strike the fast-moving targets they had taken cover behind a concrete roadblock.

"Filthy theives!" a man called in another pause. He had a very Italian accent."We'll skin you alive!"

"Euh."

"Nice guys, aren't they?"

"Tha' you, Lovino?" Alistair called, poking his head around the side of the barrier. He was answered with another shower of bullets.

"Come out so I can shoot you full of holes! And bring back our battery!"

"If it was yours, what was it still doin' in the car, ye lazy git!"

"It was on our territory!"

Alistair stood up quite suddenly, took aim with his rifle and fired a shot. A metallic ricochet carried out over the street, followed by an angry roar.

"Cazzo!"

"Okay, go!"

Alfred slammed his backpack down on the desk, making Arthur jump. The man raised an eyebrow at the frown he was receiving, but opened the bag without a word. A satisfied smile pulled at his lips as he pulled out the two red canisters the American had been carrying. Alfred was too annoyed to really take notice that it was the first smile he'd ever seen on the Brit.

"Alright, now there's a-"

"No."

Arthur's tiny smile evaporated all at once.

"No?"

"I've been running around for you for a month. I have made more trips in and out of this place than I can count. It's time for you to keep your part of the bargain."

The American didn't flinch, even under the fierce glare he was given.

"I rather think it's my decision as to whether or not you've done enough."

His last reserves of patience had long since dried up. He was tired and sore and had too much of a close call this run to not be weary of the next time he would be sent out. He was told he'd only have to do a favour, and when he returned from that, he was given another task.

And another.

And another.

And another.

All with the promise that if he did this one thing, Arthur would tell him what he wanted to know – he would help him find his brother. But the favours and the tasks were adding up, stacking high and from atop them all Alfred was left looking down at a broken promise.

It was why his instincts took over when they did. He flew at the man, tackling him over the desk and knocking him back in his chair. Both men clattered to the floor and Alfred crouched over the shorter blonde, pulling up at his collar with one hand and jamming the muzzle of his Beretta M9 into the Englishman's skull.

"I have done enough," he hissed. He was somewhat disappointed to realize that Arthur didn't look scared, nor surprised. He lay in his chair, staring up blankly at the American, watching his face carefully. "I have risked my life for you more times than I can count for parts and food and fuel, and you have given me nothing."

"I have given you food and shelter and others who won't kill or eat you to survive."

"That's not what I wanted from you."

"We can't always get what we want, now can we?"

Alfred answered him with an angry snarl, pulling up harsher – pushing down firmer. He was sure the muzzle of his gun would leave a mark on his forehead. Arthur, however, was lax and motionless and void of expression.

"Do it."

Alfred tensed, and for a moment he feared he would.

"It's nae just a wild goose chase, lad."

Alistair found him later, one floor above with his face down on his bed and his head under a pillow. Alfred didn't turn, even when he felt a depression in the mattress from where the Scotsman had taken a seat at the end of it.

"I know it's gotta be hard, but this'll all pay off in the end."

"I hate your brother," he said, and he sounded somewhat sad when he did.

"Yeah," Alistair agreed quietly. Alfred felt him stand. "I do too."

Pirates, Rats and Beasts.

They sounded like names out of fantasy novels.

But they were all a part of Alfred's time in England. They were names given by one faction to another and never spoken kindly. For three months, the American had been cursed at, shot at and called a filthy pirate more times than he could count.

He'd heard Alistair and others yell at the people they faced the most, calling them rats and vermin.

But Alfred disliked the Beasts the most – commonly referred to as such by both groups. The Beasts were the ones that killed without question, and cleaned a battlefield of the bodies – even if they hadn't been involved in the battle at all.

The American had made a mistake of asking Alistair what they did with the corpses, after watching a small pack of the aforementioned 'Beasts' pile bodies into a truck. The Scot's face had been grim as he shook his head and ominously stated:

"Food gets harder an' harder to come by, these days."

"I'm leaving."

Arthur did not look up from his notebook, where Alfred learned he archived their supplies and how they could afford to use them.

"I came here to find my brother, and that's what I'm going to do. I've wasted too much time here as it is." He was still, and the Brit did not look up. Alfred looked to fill the silence again, probing for a reaction. "I'd like to take a few supplies, if I could, just a bit of food and enough water to get me into the countryside."

No answer.

"I'll only take what weapons I brought with me, nothing else."

With a long sigh, Arthur stood. He threw his notes on the table and tucked his pen behind his ear. He fixed Alfred with that unreadable look, then walked right past him and out the door.

"Come with me."

Alfred was lead down the stairs – further down than he'd ever been before. The staircase was bloody in some places and ruined in others, but Arthur traversed them with such confidence the American knew he'd done it before. They further down they went, Arthur noticed that the doors to back out to the hotel were more and more reinforced. The ground floor had been completely blocked off by sheet metal, riveted into the frame.

They were quiet enough to hear the mindless babbling on the other side.

But the door to the second level of the underground garage was not sealed shut and reinforced. Arthur lead him into the dark without fear.

Alfred stood in the blackness, willing his eyes to adjust. He saw Arthur duck off to his left, but before he could question what he was doing there was a click. He raised a curious eyebrow at the revving sound that followed, only to have to squeeze his eyes shut against the floodlight that lit up the garage.

The cars had all been pushed against the walls, leaving a wide open space for workbenches and toolboxes and half-fixed generators. Arthur stepped out from behind the generator powering the light, brushing his hands off on his trousers. Without a word he walked towards the back of the garage – specifically to where one of the cars had been dragged into the work area. The American followed, whether or not he was supposed to.

The car was small and rusty, but Alfred knew this vehicle was different from the ones that had been shoved against the walls. It had been given more attention than the others, and Arthur approached a metallic workbench. Al recognized his duffel bag open on the surface of the bench, next to an oil-stained rag.

"What did you think you were collecting, all this time?" Arthur asked softly, watching as the younger man's face lit up slowly with understanding. "Granted, a lot of what you gathered were used to help keep up us powered and fed and healthy, but that in part was so we had the time to work on this."

He gestured to the car, and Alfred felt guilty for how negatively he'd thought of Arthur. He looked to the short blonde, who stared somewhat sadly at the vehicle, standing off to the side with his hands tucked neatly behind his back.

"Alistair has a talent for fixing things. I asked him to put this together for you."

"But...Why?" Alfred wandered forward, interested in the contents of his bag. His shotgun and rifle were there, sticking out of the top, as well as a couple spare boxes of ammunition. There was a medical kit, a change of clothes and a blanket, all there too.

"There's a case of water in the trunk," Arthur added quietly, leaning against a concrete support and folding his arms over his chest. Alfred turned his head to look to the usually irritable Brit.

"Why would you do all this for me?"

"Not for you," the Englishman said simply, "for your brother."

Alfred looked confused.

"He is the reason I'm alive today. When things...when things really started to fall apart at the university, he and a few other doctors volunteered to stay behind and keep working. The rest of us stayed long enough to help them reinforce their building – to make sure they could keep working in peace."

The man bit his cheek and directed a green-eyed stare to the floor.

"After that, most of us went our separate ways. I ran into trouble before I even got off of the campus, running into a crowd of those things. Matthew was the only one who left the safety of the building to help me. I would've been killed out there, were it not for what he did."

Despite the dim lighting, somber tone and sad expression on the Englishman's face, Alfred was grinning. He flew forward, hitting the smaller man with the full force of a crushing hug.

"Thank you," he said, ignoring the way the blonde squirmed and huffed against the embrace.

"Don't-" Arthur got his arms up between them and managed to push them apart "-don't thank me. Just go find him."

He stepped around the American and led the way back to the desk, unfolding a peice of paper Alfred had completely overlooked. Arthur had found a map and highlighted the route that would take him into London – and more specifically, the University just north of its heart.

Something dawned on Alfred as he watched the man re-trace the route with his finger.

"So...were you a doctor there too?"

"Biochemical engineer," Arthur admitted. "But I was one of the many who just couldn't see a solution. Plus, I still had family. My brothers, Peter and my niece, all immune. My heart wasn't in the work, I was too worried for them."

The Englishman folded the map up slowly, then tucked it into the side pocket of Alfred's bag.

"I found some of them and we settled here, but I never forgot their determination, nor the risk Matthew took for my sake. You are my apology and my thanks to him."

Alfred opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off by the sound of an explosion which shook the building – even underground as they were. Arthur's eyes were wild when he looked to the ceiling, then his attention turned to where a series of shrieking sirens echoed down the stairwell.

He was gone before either man could summon words, and Alfred was left with his supplies and the car and a choice.

He threw his bag over his shoulder, checked that his pistol was loaded, then ran for the stairs as well.

Two favourite things ever? Yes please.

I'll probably come back and fix this up later tonight, but I wanted to get it out and see how people take to it. Don't worry, I'm not abandoning any of my other projects, I'm just getting ideas out of my head and down onto paper.

Please review, I'm happy to answer any questions, comments or criticism. I live for your feedback.

Thanks so much for reading

Until next time

Ami.