It's A Wonderful Life, Mr. Bonnefoy [FrUK]

The man stared down at the town, assessing the people with eyes so green that the rest of his face seemed to disappear. He was perched comfortably against a chimney, the roof scratching against his pale feet, though it was hardly noticeable. Stars peeked out of the clouds timidly, as if afraid the man would turn his gaze on them. His cold hands tangled with one another, fingernails scratching up against the skin of his hands.

He found that the local markets were the best places for his searches- they held many people, young and old, men and women, and were always lit up and busy with fluorescent lights and flashing signs. It was useful, as well, to see what some of the people had in their baskets. Were they alcoholic? Did the corners of their bags sag with the necessities for their family? Or maybe they were filled with piles of processed junk food- the kind that showed you were rotting from the inside and there was nothing you could do to stop it. You can tell a lot from a person at a grocery store. Just having the ability to see the food they eat, the pills they take, and the other miscellaneous items they get can make all the difference.

The man on the roof did not use knives or weapons. He did not touch his victims in any harmful way; the only way he even felt their skin was when he hooked them up to the machine that would determine their fate. He had a mission, and the man had no time to associate himself with blood or screams while he worked. He did nothing that his victims could say against him when he released them -- if they could ever speak again.  He knew what to do. The experiments were simple. You target a human, you take them, you test them.

But tonight seemed to have no prospect. The man scanned the shoppers faces, investigating, waiting for the telltale signs of a worthy subject, but failed to find any. It frustrated him to no end that none of these humans -- that all had such potential -- didn't have any happiness on their faces, never differed from the norm, never looked one another in the eye. Like cattle. Like sheep.

The man stood up, sneering, digging his nails into his skin to prevent them from curling around the necks of these useless half-lives. He wasn't sure why he even chose a night during this period of time to observe these people. He shouldn't have expected anything different from the same sad beings he saw dragging their feet on the street. Turning and sweeping his arm from his cape, he made way for the end of the roof. 

It was foolish of him. He needs to leave.

"Ah, pardon me, mademoiselle, but do you possibly know the directions to Madison Street?"

The man turned, ever so slightly.

"I'm sorry?" said a woman's voice, tired and weary.

"Do you know the way to Madison Street?" the person repeated, voice smooth and topped with a romantic lilt of a Frenchman. 

"Uh, sorry, I don't," the voice replied to the other. "I really have to go."

The man turned, and stared at the scene unfolding just at the exit of the store. There stood a woman with auburn hair that  dropped just to her shoulders, and in front of her a tall, long haired man with eyes like little pieces of the sky. He looked down at her, face unreadable except for the small smile dancing on the corners of his mouth. His hair was the color of spun gold. On his chin rested the ends of a goatee and the beginnings of a green scarf, as well as a tan trench coat. He was obviously new to this town, otherwise the man on the roof would have recognized his face.

"A shame," the blond sighed, shaking his head. "But, before you go, I have just one more question."

"Yeah, okay, sure," scoffed the woman, shifting the groceries around in her arms. "Just make it quick."

"Could you give me directions to your bedroom?" he said, a playful grin now evident on his kind face.

The woman did not find his actions kind nor playful, and his grin was slapped off his face by her right hand. 

"PERVERT!" she screamed at him, and then trotted away hurriedly. 

Although the man's face was red with a slap mark, he simply brushed it off. With a laugh bubbling in his throat, he said, "Mon dieu, yet another slap! That must be the third this week!"

Placing his calloused hands in his pocket, the Frenchman flicked his head to clear the strands of hair in his face. "Ah, well. Better luck next time."

And though he walked away, a skip in his step, the man on the roof still watched, eyes hungry and face cracked open with what looked to be a smile. His hands had stopped moving; the gears in his brain had already started to turn.

"What a man," he said to himself. "What a wonderful human being. It almost makes me sad that I have to break him."

And, with a grin on his gaunt face and a flicker of something in those emerald eyes, he slipped into the night.

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So I'm going to try to start off this new series. I'm not too sure where its going to end up, but it will hopefully be somewhere good. I have a lot of ideas for this, and I'm pretty excited for its outcome! I'm trying not to make England really creepy stalker like. His character will be revealed further as the story progresses. 

I do not own Hetalia, Francis Bonnefoy, or Arthur Kirkland. 

Until next time.....