Chapter Text
He walked briskly down the long, lavishly-decorated hallway, his dark violet cape fluttering behind him. A pair of guards in bulletproof vests accompanied him on either side, one armed with a variety of different handguns and knives, and the other with a sniper rifle and grenades.
With a slight frown, he reached down to his pocket to pull out his phone and glanced at the screen. 3:04, it read. Father would not be pleased. A handful of servants chattering up ahead went silent immediately upon seeing the grim expression on his face, and quickly shuffled out of his way. They knew better than to risk his ire by delaying him further.
He did not acknowledge their presence as he passed. Even if he were in a better mood, to do so would be nothing short of improper.
At last, he rounded the corner. Another pair of guards stood at his bedroom door, which he stopped to stand in front of expectantly until one of them finally took the hint and reached over to open it. He passed through them as though they were little more than statues, and the door clicked shut once again. With a wave of his hand, the two that had come with him took up positions by the door along the inside.
It was a rather glorious bedroom, for certain. Along the back wall was a massive, beautifully carved mahogany bed, on either side of which were doors leading out to the balcony. Gorgeously upholstered seats circled an ornate coffee table, and a massive, flat-panel television hung from one wall beside some landscape paintings. None of those things, however, were what he was there for. Instead, he turned towards his desk, upon which sat one of the most powerful desktop computers on the market. He quickly took a seat and flipped open his webcam. With a few clicks and an input password, several face cameras popped up.
In the center was a man with a short beard, moustache, and a jewel-encrusted gold crown. Predictably enough, it was he who was first to speak.
“So, Prince Ivan has finally deigned to join us,” he said, clearly unamused.
“My apologies, my liege,” said Ivan. “Today's petitioners were displeased by the court closing early.”
In a facecam on one side of the king's, Yekaterina pursed her lips sympathetically. On the other side, Natalya maintained a steely gaze, her emotions well-hidden. On the second and third rows of cameras were the faces of the king's council, who dared not show their opinions on the prince's response one way or another.
“Irrelevant,” said the king. “This meeting takes priority. If the peasantry refused to leave, you should have had them arrested for trespassing.”
“Yes, my liege.”
“Now,” said the king. “I expect you all know why you're here.”
All those present for the virtual conference nodded.
“With each passing day,” said the king, “the rebel army grows in size and confidence. Up until recently, it hasn't been worthy of note. However, with the loss of Ephenette, belief in their capacity to overthrow us has grown, and the movement has gained steam. Spymaster Yao, if you would present your report?”
“Of course, your majesty,” said a slender, long-haired male with some of the most androgynous features Ivan had ever seen. To remark upon that, however, would be unprofessional. Despite his youthful appearance, he had to be older than he looked, for Ivan could remember him being on the council even when he, himself, had been a child too young for a landed title. “I've uploaded the full report to the server. In summation, my network estimates that the rebel army is about eight thousand or so strong, and growing daily. Although they continue to be plagued by financial troubles, they're surviving well enough off of donations and volunteer work on the part of the lower class. We've managed to slip in some undercover operatives, but it's been difficult. Desperate as they are for support, they're surprisingly thorough with background checks. Even so, we've gotten word that their next target is Volaus.”
“So they're after Princess Natalya, then,” murmured a man with slicked-back blonde hair and a strong jawline. “Sire, I recommend that we relocate the princess to the capital and ready our troops to defend Volaus at once!”
“Calm yourself, Marshal Ludwig,” said Natalya coolly. “I am not so easily frightened that I would flee from a horde of unskilled ruffians.”
“Natalya, be reasonable,” said Yekaterina, appearing concerned. As always, she wore her emotions on her sleeve. “You shouldn't risk your life for honor.”
“Honor has little to do with it,” said the king. “Were word to get out that Natalya is returning to the capital, it would look as though we feared the rebellion. We cannot afford such displays of weakness. Rather, we must raise an army capable of properly defending the border.”
“Such a decision would be financially unwise,” said a well-dressed man with a mole on his chin. “We can't afford to divide our attention between the southern border and the rebel army. Well, not without raising taxes, at least.”
“Steward Roderich brings up a good point,” interjected Yekaterina, clearly scrambling for a reason to move her youngest sister to safety. “We couldn't possibly raise taxes any higher than they are now without further upsetting the populace. It would only add fuel to the rebellion!”
“Hmm,” responded the king thoughtfully. “What say you, Chancellor?”
Behind his smile, Ivan gritted his teeth. The chancellor was such a strange fellow. The grandson of an esteemed (and deceased) general, he was outwardly lazy and fearful. Still, beneath that happy-go-lucky exterior that so excelled at getting others to underestimate his intelligence, there was a strangely brilliant strategic mindset. It was a little unsettling.
“Ve,” said Chancellor Feliciano, who had been visibly shivering the entire conversation. “M-maybe we could blame the rebellion for the tax increase? I mean, if I had to pay someone more because of some third party, I'd probably get upset with them.”
“Yes, of course,” said the king, a smile spreading across his face. “If we ensure that the commoners understand the rebels are the reason for the tax increase, it will breed resentment. After all, even if we were to cut them down, another rebellion would just spring up in its place. The only way to ensure continued peace is to eliminate popular support.”
“It's going to take more than that to end the rebellion for good,” said Ludwig. “With their current power, they're just as capable of spreading propaganda as we are. We need to demoralize them. Make them believe they can't win.”
“I believe I can be of some assistance with that,” said Yao. “I didn't make it explicitly clear earlier, but my network has identified some key individuals within the rebels' ranks.”
“Go on,” said the king.
“Their true leaders are quite valuable, of course,” said Yao, and an image was uploaded on the screen. It was a slightly blurry photograph of a stubbly-chinned man with blonde hair hovering over a table alongside a stern-looking man with large eyebrows. “Francis Bonnefoy and Arthur Kirkland have been an asset to their side. However, though their capture would be a temporary setback, there are others capable of stepping up to take their place. The real prize, as usual, is someone of a little less strategic importance, but whose face is known well throughout their ranks for their strength and self-confidence. A bit of a figurehead, if you would.”
Another photo popped up on the screen of a young man brandishing a revolver in each hand. Ivan's eyes widened slightly with renewed interest. He was clearly a fair bit younger than the rebel leaders, but he carried himself as though he possessed the power of a king. His smile was cocky, but not cruel.
“He's not in charge of the rebellion – from what I understand, he's rather hot-headed and disinclined to strategize – but he's become the face of it all the same. Rather good at motivational speeches, or so I hear,” said Yao. “His name is Alfred Jones, and I believe his capture would deal a significant blow to their morale.”
In that moment, as the picture disappeared from the screen, a single, overpowering thought crossed Ivan's mind.
I want him.
Such a strange feeling. It wasn't entirely unfamiliar to him, but it had never been one he could quite manage to fulfill. Those unlucky enough to find themselves yearned for by him were usually still fortunate enough to be in positions influential enough that, prince or not, he couldn't justify uprooting them from. Unsurprising, given that the vast majority of his interactions were with nobles. But that man in the picture? He was a criminal, guilty of treason. His actions were worthy of death. No one but the other criminals would take his side if someone were to make a toy of him.
“I volunteer my resources to be put towards his capture,” said Ivan, a little too eagerly.
The others appeared somewhat surprised.
“Oh?” said the king, raising an eyebrow suspiciously. “This is rather sudden. His capture will certainly prove difficult and expensive. What brings this on? You're not hoping to be rewarded with another title, are you?”
“On the contrary, I'm quite comfortable with my assets,” said Ivan. “There is, however, something I would like to ask for in exchange for taking on this burden.”
All attention was on him. The king appeared wary. In all likelihood, he believed that Ivan sought to be made heir to the throne. He was, after all, second in line, and the firstborn son. Wasn't that how such things always went? Luckily for Yekaterina, Ivan was no pretender, and he cared little for such responsibilities.
“And what, pray tell, is that?”
“I want full custody- or, rather, ownership of him. Alfred, I mean,” said Ivan.
“Custody? What ever for?” demanded Natalya. “He is to be put to death!”
Ivan leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest.
“You know how it is. His death would only make him a martyr,” reasoned Ivan. “If we kill him, they'll want vengeance. But if we break him, he becomes a symbol of what happens to those who defy the capital.”
“An interesting proposal,” said the king, seeming quite a bit more relaxed with the revelation that Ivan's request was so much smaller than initially anticipated.
“My liege,” said Natalya, quite forcefully. “This rebel is too dangerous, and he must be dealt with decisively!”
The king opted to ignore her, in favor of addressing Ivan once again.
“And what do you hope to gain from this, Prince Ivan?”
“The prestige that comes with being the one to shatter the rebels' morale. That, and an interesting trophy to show off at dinner parties,” he answered easily. “Though I suppose a small monetary reward may also be in order.”
“You can't be seriously considering-”
“Hold your tongue, Princess Natalya,” said the king, stroking his beard. “The prince may not be the most punctual, but Ivan has worked with Yao to shatter the will of many a criminal in the past, even those said to be unbreakable. This is a task I would gladly entrust to him. What say you, Spymaster?”
Yao grimaced, but nodded. “Prince Ivan has been quite instrumental in my work in the past. I agree that he's best-suited for the task.”
“And what if the rebel were to get loose and kill him?” demanded Natalya. Yekaterina said nothing, but the look on her face made it clear that she was in agreement.
“Then his land shall be given to you, Princess Natalya, for safekeeping,” said the king curtly. “Were it Princess Yekaterina, I might be more inclined to agree. However, Prince Ivan is not heir to the throne, nor is he the only one capable of taking her place in the unlikely event of her incapacitation. It is a risk I will permit him to take, should he be so inclined. I trust it won't come to that, however.”
“I will be careful in dealing with him,” agreed Ivan, though his words seemed to do little to assuage the looks of unease on the faces of his sisters.
“I should hope so. While your life is not quite so critical as Yekaterina's, your death would reflect poorly on the crown,” said the king firmly. “Do not take this lightly.”
Well, that was a rather callous way of saying, 'Be careful, son, I love you and don't want to attend your funeral,' wasn't it? But then, it was only to be expected with all of his advisers present.
“Of course, my liege,” said Ivan. I love you, too.
“This-” began Natalya.
“Enough. The matter has been decided,” said the king. “Now, then. Let us discuss the plan.”
Miles away, in the rebel-controlled county of Ephenette, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed male in glasses punched at a bag while someone of similar appearance watched with an annoyed expression.
“Is getting all sweaty really the best idea right before a speech?” asked Matthew, arms folded over his chest. He leaned against a wall nearby and idly adjusted his glasses.
“I've gotta get myself pumped up, ya' know?” said Alfred, a grin spread across his face. He landed a solid blow against the bag, further reddening his scarred-up knuckles. The aforementioned sweat dripped from his forehead, and he wiped it off with his bare arm before hitting it again. “It gets a little nerve-wracking, being up in front of all those people.”
“You? Nervous?” said Matthew, snorting. “You don't know the meaning of the word.”
“Sure don't!” agreed Alfred. Thud! Whack! “But public speaking requires a certain mindset, or else you'd be able to deliver your own speeches, instead of just writing mine.”
“It's a team effort,” huffed Matthew. “Maybe you could make that known at some point. It would be nice if people gave me some credit as an individual, instead of just mistaking me for you all the time, like I don't even exist.”
“Well, just think,” said Alfred, finally turning away from the punching bag to grab a towel and wipe himself dry. “Now the enemy doesn't know your face!”
“We're identical twins, genius,” said Matthew flatly. “We have the same exact face.”
“Not true! I'm the handsome one,” teased Alfred. He grabbed a stick of deodorant from the table and re-applied it before putting on his shirt. A quick glance up at the clock had him doing a double-take. “Holy shit, is it three thirty already? I only have a half an hour to get cleaned up before the speech! Why didn't you say anything, Mattie?”
Matthew facepalmed.
“Oh my God, I don't even have time to shower!” said Alfred, darting out of the room in a panic. Matthew followed after him as they exited the room and emerged into a castle hallway. “I need a blow-dryer for my hair! Where's my suit? I forgot to ask how ties work! This is awful! Wait, where's my room? Damn it, why's this place gotta be so huge?”
“Well, it is a castle,” said Matthew, motioning for Alfred to follow him. “And not even a big one. Wait 'till we get to the capital.”
“Who even needs this much space?” groaned Alfred as they jogged past what seemed like innumerable doors.
“The former Count of Ephenette. Obviously.”
“Maybe he should have spent a little less time squeezing money out of his people for his giant man-cave and given something back to the community.”
“Yeah, well, that's why he's the former Count,” said Matthew, a hint of pride in his voice.
“Mm,” agreed Alfred, and for a moment, there was silence between them. “I can't wait to live in a normal house again, myself.”
Matthew hesitated. “That might be a long time from now, if we even-”
“We're going to survive, Mattie. You hear me?” interrupted Alfred suddenly, coming to a complete stop behind Matthew. “Don't you talk like we won't!”
“Right,” said Matthew, not turning around to look at him. He sounded unconvinced. “Come on, you have a speech to get ready for, Al.”
“We're not going to die,” said Alfred again, stepping forward to grab Matthew's shoulder. He stood in front of him and looked him in the eyes. “I'm not going to let anyone lay a hand on you, ever.”
Matthew smiled, though it was small and forced. “And that conviction is why you're the one giving the motivational speeches, not me. Now hurry up, unless you want to give it looking like you just fell into a puddle.”
It took several seconds for Alfred to finally release his brother's shoulder from his grip. He stepped back and turned around to continue down the hall, though it was clear from his tense shoulders and clenched fists that the words had bothered him. Matthew exhaled silently and hurried to the front before Alfred ended up getting himself lost.
They weren't in denial about what could happen to them as rebels. Not really. Alfred had accepted that he could very well die at any point, especially after his face had become well known throughout the nation. At any point, an assassin could shoot him down, or plant a bomb on his person. He knew it, and yet, he couldn't bear to talk about it, as though talking about it made that prospect more likely. He would die if he had to, but that didn't mean he wanted to, and he especially didn't want to think about such a fate befalling his brother, or his close friends. If that happened...
Well, he didn't like thinking about it, so he didn't know.
They approached the door to Alfred's bedroom warily, peeking around the corner to make sure the coast was clear. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to get them in undetected. Alfred winced as, before he could start towards it, a hand firmly gripped his ear from behind. Matthew, too, let out a squeak as his own ear was grabbed with the other hand.
“Do you two know what time it is?” said the voice icily. “Do you know how long I've been looking for you?”
Matthew was smart enough to keep quiet, but Alfred couldn't keep his trap shut.
“Not a clue, but could you let me go, Artie? I've gotta get ready for my speech,” said Alfred, as innocently as an angel.
Arthur finally let go of Matthew's ear, in favor of using that hand to seize Alfred's arm and practically drag him the rest of the way to his room. Alfred whined a little, but didn't put up too much of a struggle.
“You know, sometimes I wonder what the rest of our army might think if they knew that their beloved Alfred was a lazy, good-for-nothing idiot incapable of successfully completing even the most basic of tasks!” roared Arthur. “Be here an hour early, I said! Don't get dirty, I said! Was that really so difficult that you couldn't even manage to do one of those things? Because here you are, both late and sweaty! I've half a mind to bend you over my knee and give you the spanking of a lifetime!”
“I'm a grown man!” protested Alfred, even as Matthew fervently gestured for him to shut up.
“You're an immature child in a man's body!” said Arthur. “A child who's about to get the cane if he doesn't shut the hell up and wash himself! You have two minutes while I call Francis up and tell him that I've found you!”
“But Arthuuuuuuuur!”
“Don't 'Arthur' me!” said Arthur, practically ripping the bathroom door open and shoving Alfred inside, finally releasing his arm and ear. “You have to wash up, dry your hair, get dressed, and get into position, and I'm going to have to stall the broadcast until you do!”
Alfred rolled his eyes. Unfortunately, Arthur saw that, and whacked the back of his head as he turned around.
“Two. Minutes,” repeated Arthur with a scowl that looked borderline demonic. He slammed the door shut, leaving Alfred alone in that needlessly luxurious bathroom to strip and wash himself.
“Love you, too, Artie,” said Alfred flatly.
He showered with all due haste, reluctant as he was to get swatted by Arthur and his trusty cane. It wasn't as though he feared the pain, of course, having been through quite a bit of it in combat. It was the humiliation that he couldn't stand. Alfred would be the first one to admit that he was a bit too proud and egotistical for his own good (and Matthew would, of course, point out that it was a lot more than 'a bit'), making such methods of discipline ache more than any bullet wound.
Alfred had hardly had a chance to dry himself when someone burst through the restroom door, a suit in hand.
“You!” said Francis accusingly, though he cradled the fabric with utmost care as he spoke. “I didn't even have time to iron this because of you! Where have you been?”
“I lost track of time, okay? Geez,” said Alfred, hastily wrapping a towel around his waist. He just couldn't catch a break, could he?
Francis set the suit down on the counter beside the sink – there was so much space in castle restrooms – and pulled a comb out of his pocket. Alfred winced as, before he could react, Francis grabbed the blow dryer hooked up to the wall and began frantically tending to his damp, messy hair.
“Start getting dressed! We have to multitask if we're going to get you ready in time,” said Francis.
“Then let go of my hair!”
“There's no time! Put your trousers on, and we'll take care of the shirt later!”
Alfred rolled his eyes and grunted indignantly, but managed to get his underwear on without removing the towel, followed by his suit pants. It was about two minutes more before Francis had finished with his hair and he could get his shirt on. Despite his protests, Francis insisted upon helping him with his tie, making the admittedly convincing argument that Alfred took about thirty minutes to get it right on his own.
After that, it was a mad dash from Alfred's room to the balcony overhanging the courtyard. Through the window, Arthur could be seen, valiantly extending his own speech in order to buy more time.
“-is why we will never give up! We fight for our brothers and sisters who've fallen in battle! For the innocents starved of food and medical care while the royals feast! For the children begging on the street for handouts!”
Alfred bit his lip. It wasn't a terrible speech, really, but although Arthur was a brilliant strategist and a writer, he was only moderately charismatic. That was to say, he wasn't bad at speaking, or even below average, but he wasn't particularly great, either. A revolution needed someone capable of speaking to crowds to really push it along.
Now, Alfred was a man of many talents (an idea Matthew would balk at), but if there was one thing that everyone agreed he could do pretty well, it was speaking confidently. Perhaps a little too confidently. Whatever Matthew's opinion, however, the revolutionaries seemed to eat it right up. That combined with the fact that he was the sort to put his money where his mouth was had the masses eating out of his hands, despite not knowing a thing about him.
And yeah, he would be lying if he said that didn't feel kind of amazing. But he definitely didn't do it just for the attention!
Alfred burst through the door just as Arthur seemed to be running out of things to say, and flashed his usual bright smile as the camera someone had hooked up turned towards him. Hundreds of people stood in what had once been the courtyard, though signs of combat still lingered. Many of the hedges had been burned, and statues toppled. At the very least, the clean-up crew had done an excellent job of removing the bodies for proper funerals and cleaning up the blood. There were children in attendance, and they didn't need to see those awful things.
“Good morning, everybody!” he said easily. Arthur sighed. The crowd gathered below the balcony erupted into cheers. Alfred's cheeks took on the slightest shade of red. “Aww, come on, don't make me blush. You guys? Down there? You're the ones that deserve the round of applause. Come on, everyone, give it up for yourselves! You're the ones making this all possible!” He clapped his own hands, and so did the crowd, for several moments more. Time for the meat of the speech. In other words, what Matthew had written. “Even the smallest of contributions has helped us get to where we are today! After months of planning, and weeks of battle, the barony of Ephenette has been wrested from the king's control! Many of you standing out there right now have made grave sacrifices. Friends and family have bravely fought and died to free these lands from tyranny. But, as the royal family has no doubt been made aware, they have not died in vain!”
He raised his fist into the air, practically shouting those final words. Geez, his five-minute spiel was going to be about twice as long if he had to keep pausing to let people cheer and clap between every few lines. But then, that just meant he was doing his job right.
“Cute,” said Ivan, slightly raising the volume on the television. It was rather bold of them to do a live broadcast that anyone could pick up on with the proper equipment. He smiled as Alfred's voice blared through his room. Initially, he'd been a little worried that perhaps he'd jumped the gun and acted too impulsively upon seeing the picture. However, seeing Alfred speak live had reassured him that he was a fetching prize, indeed.
Ivan gently clutched his chest and closed his eyes. That voice alone was enough to make his heart beat faster, even if it was spewing nonsense stemming from a blatant ignorance of politics. He was so steadfast in his convictions that it was almost enough to convert Ivan, himself.
Well, not really, but he really was good.
He idly scrolled down the document printed on his tablet. He'd already gone over most of it, but he was particularly fond of his newfound target's file.
“Name,” chimed the tablet in a feminine voice, “Alfred Jones. Hair, blonde. Eyes, light blue. Skin, medium pale. Both parents deceased. Siblings...”
Ivan frowned.
“...None,” said the document.
“No siblings?” said Ivan in an almost pitying way. “What a shame. I might have gone for a twofer.”
“Status, criminal. Crime, treason,” said the tablet, as though it weren't obvious already.
“Skip to profile,” said Ivan.
“Skipping to profile,” said the tablet. “Alfred Jones' father committed suicide when he was only two, and his mother took her own life shortly after. The note he left implies that his desire to die stemmed from poverty. Following these events, Jones was sent to the Sunnyglade Orphanage, where he repeatedly demonstrated a reluctance to submit to authority. This reached a head when the rebellion began two years ago. At the age of seventeen, all of the orphanage's documentation on him was destroyed, along with all digital traces of their existence, an event still being looked into by investigators to this day. Though the records are lost, information about many of these individuals and their lives has been recouped from word-of-mouth. All those at the orphanage insist that Alfred was the only one they remembered disappearing, and though some remaining physical records seemed to imply a second, this has been chalked up to a typographical error.
“Months after joining the rebels, Jones became popular with other members after a video was released of him jumping repeatedly into the line of fire to drag his injured squadmates to safety. This and many other instances of heroism combined with his close relationship with the rebel leaders quickly put him in the spotlight, and he became something of a figurehead for the cause. During the battle of Echo Valley, witness accounts claim that he single-handedly took out a platoon of thirty of the crown's top soldiers.”
Ivan stroked the picture of Alfred's face on the screen, even as it caused it to scroll upwards.
“So cute,” he said again, smiling. Oh, that sweet confidence. That look of determination.
He wanted to shatter it, then build it back up and make it his.
Ivan snapped his fingers. A guard hurried to his side.
“Yes, Prince Ivan?”
“Have one of the servant's fetch a copy of the blueprints to the late baron's castle,” said Ivan without once turning his eyes from the attractive speaker on the television. “Then see to it that labs Eight and Thirteen are ready and operational.”
“The chemical weapon and physiological modification centers?” said the guard, seemingly in disbelief.
“The same,” said Ivan. He wasn't afraid to fight a little dirty, if he had to. “All's fair in love and war.”
And this was both.
Wham!
A crack formed in the board where his fist had just struck. The noise echoed throughout the bustling training room, where men and women alike worked to improve their skills for the battles ahead.
“Another broken?” said one of the other soldiers by the punching boards. He was a fairly slender man whose short dark hair was modestly styled into blunt bangs. “Other people need to use those, you know.”
Alfred laughed uncomfortably. “Sorry about that, Kiku! I guess I just got too into it.”
“Honestly,” said Matthew from the weight-lifting station. His muscular arms strained beneath the heavily-weighted barbell above him, and he spoke between bench presses. “You, have, no, self, control!”
“Not in the least!” agreed Alfred all too readily.
Matthew visibly gritted his teeth and, under the watchful supervision of his spotter, set it back on the stand. His arms dropped to his sides, and he drew in a couple ragged breaths.
“Weeeeeak,” teased Alfred. “Come on, Mattie, you can do better than that. How are you even gonna hold a gun up with those noodle arms?”
“The same way you get laid with your noodle dick,” Matthew shot back venomously.
“Aren't you identical twins?” asked Matthew's spotter. He was a pasty-faced man with skin and hair so light that it could blind people. “Technically, you've got the exact same-”
“Shut up, Gilbert.”
“Gil to the rescue, as usual!” said Alfred, as chipper as ever. “Score!”
“Hey, I don't come to anyone's rescue in a battle of burns,” said Gilbert with a shrug. “Someone of my caliber is above taking sides. I just point out the obvious.”
“You always take sides,” Kiku pointed out. “You took Francis' side in an argument with Arthur just yesterday for the sole purpose of fanning the flames.”
“And since when do you take sides?” demanded Gilbert, hands on his hips. “I thought you were Mr. Above It All?”
“I just point out the obvious,” said Kiku, totally deadpan. Alfred burst into laughter, and Matthew erupted into a fit of giggles. Gilbert raised his fists.
“Oh, you wanna go, smart guy?”
Kiku seemed confused. “Go where?”
“Fight me!” roared Gilbert, jumping forward as if to tackle Kiku to the ground.
Kiku side-stepped the movement, sending Gilbert face-first into the stone floor.
“Son of a bitch!” said Gilbert. He sat up, nursing a bloody and obviously broken nose. “You broke my nose!”
“You broke your own nose,” said Kiku honestly enough. Alfred's laugh grew even harder, while Matthew looked concerned.
“Gilbert, you can't just go getting yourself injured outside of combat!” scolded Matthew as he hurried to Gilbert's side with one of the many tissues he'd been keeping in his pocket for just such an occasion.
“Lighten up, Mattie,” said Alfred. “It's just his nose. And possibly his brain, but that was already broken.”
“You wanna go, next?” hissed Gilbert.
“Only if you promise to break another body part.”
“Guys!” said Matthew firmly. “Quit arguing. I'm going to take Gilbert to get fixed up. Try not to kill each other before we even leave for Volaus.”
“Fixed up? But I'm in the middle of training!” complained Gilbert. Matthew rolled his eyes and reached forward to pull his hand from his face. Blood immediately began dripping down his lips, chin, and neck. “Okay, maybe I could use some bandages.”
Matthew escorted him away – well, 'dragged' was actually a little more accurate – leaving Alfred with Kiku.
“That was pretty sick,” said Alfred, grinning.
“I don't think it was that terrible. He attacked me, first,” said Kiku, a hint of defensiveness in his voice.
“No, no. Good sick. Man, you've gotta learn some lingo!” said Alfred. He strolled over to give Kiku a friendly slap on the back, which only succeeded in causing his eyes to widen like a deer in the headlights as he was jerked forward. Geez. He was always a bit on edge, as a rule, but somehow he seemed even more ready for something to go wrong than usual. “You're super smart, but you always sound like you have no idea what's going on when people talk! Guess it was kinda cool when you said those things to Gil, though.”
“Oh,” said Kiku. Alfred sighed. Getting him to have a lengthy conversation was like trying to get water out of a rock. Still, his general reluctance to speak made him great at keeping secrets, a trait that Alfred wholeheartedly abused the hell out of when he had something he needed to get off his chest. Kiku, for his part, was a pretty understanding guy. He never seemed to mind.
“So, anyway-” Alfred was about to continue, when something shocking happened.
BOOM! CRACK! The whole castle shook, and everyone standing struggled to stay that way.
“We're under attack!” said a panicked voice.
“We're not ready!” said another.
Adrenaline surged through Alfred's veins, and from the expression on Kiku's face, he could see that it was the same for the both of them. Under attack? But how? It sounded like they were being bombed from above, but that couldn't be right. Even if one of their own was flying and identified themselves, the scanners should have shot down any airplane carrying a bomb within a mile of the castle.
BOOM! CRACK! BOOM! CRACK! The room was chaos as people began to panic. The training room was for trainees, as well as soldiers, and many of them had joined only recently.
“Everyone, calm down!” ordered Alfred. His bouncy voice had grown much more serious. “Pull yourselves together! Trainees, evacuate all non-combat personnel to the shelters and remain there on guard duty! Kiku, which squads are assigned to this training room right now?”
“Eight, eleven, and twenty-four,” answered Kiku, already grabbing his gear. The trainees hurriedly took what little defensive equipment they were permitted to keep on hand and rushed off to do as they'd been told. Each squad had a specialty. It was best to play to their strengths.
Alfred nodded. “Okay! Squad eight, report to Francis and Arthur! Back them up! Squad eleven, rescue operations! Squad twenty-four, get to your aircraft immediately and begin emergency counter-attack operations! Move it!”
They all rushed around like a swarm of buzzing bees. Alfred swung his backpack over one sweaty shoulder and, with Kiku, rushed out the door with Squad Eight to get to Francis and Arthur.
It was an action he immediately regretted. The moment the doors opened, they were assaulted by a thick cloud of what Alfred could only presume was some kind of pepper spray, though it felt worse than any that he'd ever practiced dealing with in the past. Painfully blinded, it took every ounce of willpower to resist the instinct to try and rub it out of his eyes. He could hear the other soldiers screaming out in pain and collapsing to the floor. Every inch of Alfred's skin felt as though it were on fire as he fumbled through his bag for his gas mask. His throat was completely ruined; there would be no issuing orders in his sorry state.
“Kah-” he choked out, trying in vain to call out for Kiku.
“I'm fine,” said Kiku's voice, though it sounded filtered. “I put my gas mask on before we left the room.”
Prepared as usual. Alfred was all too grateful for the assistance when Kiku helped him strap his mask to his face. There was no immediate relief, of course, but it made it a little easier to breathe. Still, being both blind and muted, he was in no shape to give out orders to a bunch of other men in sorrier states.
“Ma-me,” he choked, “G-go Arfur, F-fah-sis. Ya-oo t-ak cah-command.”
Kiku appeared conflicted about something.
“Wait, Alfred,” he began.
“Th-hat an order!” said Alfred, a little more firmly. Kiku hesitated, at first, then finally nodded.
“Understood,” said Kiku. “I'll help everyone get their masks on, and then we'll follow you. Are you certain you can get there as you are?”
Despite the excruciating agony, Alfred gave him a thumbs-up, then touched a wall for support. Arthur and Francis were only at the end of the hall. He just had to keep going straight until he hit the last door.
BANG! CRACK!
Alfred turned and ran down the hall, choking out barely-audible apologies to every poor sap he ended up bumping into or nearly trampling along the way. Francis and Arthur would know exactly what needed to be done, and where he would be able to do the most good.
It hurt. Even with the filter on, it was still hard to breathe as a result of what he'd already inhaled. He blinked vigorously as he'd been trained to do, and tears streamed out of them in a vain attempt to flush out the source of his painful blindness. Every five seconds, he erupted into a coughing fit, but it didn't stop him. He had to get his orders. He had to protect his family.
The walk was only a few short minutes, but it felt like an eternity. At long last, however, he met a wall. Alfred quickly felt around for the doorknob.
“It's me, Al-ferd!” he managed to hack up before even attempting to open the door. He wasn't particularly intelligent, but he wasn't a complete and utter moron, either. “Don't shoot!”
The door opened before he could even push it, and he felt himself being yanked inside.
“Alfred! Thank goodness you're safe,” said Arthur, sounding both stressed and relieved. He pulled Alfred into a hug and slammed the door shut behind him.
“Reinforcements,” wheezed Alfred. “On way. How-?”
BANG! CRACK!
“They aren't bombs,” said Francis' voice, and Alfred could feel his hands running over his body to check for injuries. Arthur released him in order to allow him to do so unimpeded. “They're dropping dead weights on the building. They got through air security by hacking into the system and recording several of our pilots speaking the passwords. The chemical weapons are inside falcons trained to fly into the building, upon which point they blow up. You probably can't see it as you are right now, but several of the walls by the windows are covered in blood and feathers.”
“Crafty bitches,” said Arthur, clearly speaking through gritted teeth.
“Matthew?” inquired Alfred, his voice finally beginning to come back to him.
“Wasn't he in the training room with you?” asked Francis, suddenly sounding frantic. “He's with the reinforcements, is he not?”
Shit.
“Gilbert's nose broken,” said Alfred. His vision wasn't completely restored, but he was beginning to make out basic shapes again. “Matthew taking to medical.”
“Shit!” said Arthur. “We've got to pull it together and evacuate the castle. They don't have any ground forces; they're just trying to destroy the building by dropping weights on all of its weak points. The top aerial squad was in the training room! What happened to them?”
“Sent them to planes,” said Alfred, stepping backwards towards the door. “Going to find Matthew now!”
He saw Arthur's silhouette lunge forward to grab him, but he jumped back out of the way.
“Oh, no you don't!” said Arthur. “You're going to evacuate to the shelter with the others! I'll find Matthew!”
“You're both going to go to the shelter while I find Matthew!” argued Francis.
“Both you two too important,” said Alfred impatiently. “Leaders! Have to lead! I'll find Matthew.”
Though he could see the hesitation in their very posture, Arthur and Francis reluctantly nodded. They loved both he and Matthew dearly, but they were no strangers to what it meant to be at war. Much as they wanted to ensure their family's safety first, they had a responsibility to the rebellion.
“Come back safe,” said Francis, leaning forward to kiss him on the forehead.
“If you die,” said Arthur slowly, “I'll kill you.”
Alfred nodded.
“Love you!” he said, and took off running out the door.
Right turn. Left turn. The halls of the castle were confusing, and it wasn't helped by the fact that the whole building was constantly shaking with every weight dropped down upon the roof by the fighter jets up above. Though it seemed to have slowed down some, and the sounds of an aerial battle seemed to have begun, the assault was relentless. Already, cracks were forming in the walls, and support pillars seemed to have been knocked over.
“Matthew!” he screamed down the hall, even as the words felt like sandpaper in his throat. “Matthew!”
“Alfred!” called a voice back. “Alfred, help!”
Alfred hurriedly rounded the corner into the next hall. What he saw shocked him.
“Alfred!” said Matthew desperately. Beside him, Gilbert was on the floor, unconscious. His arm was being pinned down by a piece of what appeared to be the ceiling. “Help me get this off of him!”
He was at Matthew's side quicker than a flash. With trembling fingers, he seized the underside of the debris and began to pull upwards with his brother. For a moment, it seemed to work. Their combined effort lifted it up into the air. Just as Matthew was about to shove Gilbert's arm out of the way with his foot, however, another crash caused it to slip out of their hands.
Matthew screamed as the debris landed on his foot as well as Gilbert's arm.
“Shit! You okay?” asked Alfred.
“I think it's broken,” said Matthew, his face screwed up with pain. “But I can still walk on it if I have to. Do you know what the plan is?”
“Evacuate to shelter,” answered Alfred, gripping the debris once more. “Lift!”
The two of them hoisted the piece of ceiling into the air once more, and Alfred kicked Gilbert's arm out of harm's way while Matthew pulled his crushed foot to safety. Both appeared injured, but it was nothing so severe as to be unfixable, at least as far as Alfred could tell. He grunted as he released the debris, and rubbed his sore palms together.
“And Francis and Arthur?”
“The reinforcements should have arrived by now,” said Alfred. His phone buzzed in his back pocket, as did Matthew and Gilbert's. “That must be the evacuation orders.”
“Awesome,” groaned Gilbert, only partially awake. “Too awesome for ceilings...”
Matthew hoisted Gilbert up onto his shoulder. Alfred was about to assist them when another voice called out from behind them.
“Help!” cried an unfamiliar female voice. Alfred turned around. There was another woman he hadn't seen before who appeared to be trapped under a piece of wall. She wore a soldier's uniform. He didn't recognize her, but that was unsurprising; he couldn't possibly know everyone in the army. “Please help me!”
“Alfred-” began Matthew. Again, the building shook. It was only a matter of time before another weight struck the roof above them. The hallway they were in was already coming apart. Who knew how much longer it would last?
“I've got it. You get Gilbert to safety,” said Alfred. “I'm stronger than you. I can help her on my own! It'll be quick.”
“No, I'll do it! You need to get back to the shelter more than I do!” said Matthew, even as he winced from both his weight and that of a half-conscious Gilbert. “You're more important!”
Alfred smacked him across the face.
“Don't you ever say that again!” he snapped. “You're the one who writes my speeches! You're the one with the great strategic mind! You're the one who puts up with people not recognizing you as your own person! You're the best fucking brother in the world, and don't you try to tell me otherwise! Now you take Gilbert to shelter, and make it there alive! I'll follow you in a minute. That's an order, soldier!”
Matthew trembled for a moment; then, his face hardened into one of steely determination.
“We're equal in rank, asshole,” said Matthew as he turned around to limp away with Gilbert over his shoulder. “You'd better come back alive, you hear me?”
“Loud and clear!” said Alfred as he, too, turned around, and they went their separate ways.
Matthew was pretty fast for a man with a broken foot carrying another full-grown man to safety. By the time Alfred reached the soldier trapped under the rubble and turned his head to look over his shoulder, he was already out of sight.
“It's okay, dude, I'll have you out of there in a sec!” said Alfred. Her whole torso appeared to be pinned down, but there wasn't any blood. He stepped up close to her head and arms, which poked out of the pile, then reached down to grip the piece of wall trapping her.
It came up as easily as though it were made out of paper mache.
“What...?” said Alfred, confused. Come to think of it, where had the piece of wall even come from? The wall beside them looked to be intact.
His eyes widened at the sudden sensation of a needle being jammed into his leg, right above his ankle. Alfred turned his head down to see the 'trapped' woman smiling cockily up at him and brandishing an emptied syringe.
“That was even easier than I thought it was gonna be,” she laughed.
Alfred stepped back in horror as he felt his mind begin to grow fuzzy. Had he really just been tricked? A wave of dizziness struck him down, and the next thing he knew, he was on his back, with the woman standing over him. Was it all about to end? Right there? Like that? Poisoned? It was just too much to take in all at once, especially with his mind going blank.
“M-mattie,” he tried to cry out, but he was too weak to do any more than whisper.
“Stupid bitch,” said the woman. In his last conscious moments, he felt her reaching down to wrap her arms around his waist, then hoist his limp body up over her shoulder. “Good thing you were nice enough to address each other before that touching little farewell. I might have gone after the wrong one. Nothing personal, of course. A job's a job.”
“Mattie... Arthur... Francis...”
It looked like he wouldn't be keeping those promises, after all.