A/N: I'm back, only briefly.

The next morning Armin figured out what a hangover must feel like. Not that he got drunk last night, but still. The headache pounded in his ears louder than the drums of the music from the night before had.

The only thing he could remember was this one girl, Slut-number-one or something, had managed to start making out with him in one of Matthew's guest bedrooms. Said blond had walked in on them, not that Armin noticed- he was a bit distracted. Matthew had quietly shut the door. He felt rather bad about what happened to Isobel, but there was nothing he could do about it. The power didn't rest in his hands.

Armin woke up on the front lawn, the sunlight burning holes through his eyelids. He groaned and rolled over, inches away from some vomit on the ground. He wrinkled his nose. "Sick," he muttered, literally.

He stood up and staggered into a nearby table. Two girls were asleep on it, legs tangled together. Armin might have found the scene hot if he didn't have a freaking woodpecker behind his eyes. He glanced around. Dawn was just breaking- his side of the yard was the only part with sunlight.

The yard was surprisingly clean, if not littered with unconscious bodies. He left in a daze, wondering just what the heck had happened last night.

Then it hit him, as he was passing Isobel's house. They had a fight. She had stormed away. Were they friends? he mused. "Armin!" a familiar voice shouted from behind him. He winced. Loud noises plus headache equals... ugh. He turned around, blinking. There was the fuzzy shape of Isobel's dad, Mark. He smiled slightly. Then he realized he was probably going to be yelled at for making his precious daughter upset. Armin braced for impact.

"Have you seen Isobel? Did she go over your house last night?" Mark looked quite worried yet relieved at the same time to see Armin, who was terribly confused.

"What? No, I hadn't seen her since, like, nine thirty last night." he said. She... never went home? Maybe she was still at Matthew's house?

"Oh. She wasn't there this morning when we went to go find her... I mean, she never called us to take her home last night." Mark looked worried but Armin brushed it off. He was sure Isobel would be fine.

"Eh, I don't know." He walked away, a dumbfounded Mark behind him. Mark wondered what the heck happened to Armin last night. He seemed so tired and sad, which was very uncharacteristic for him.

Mark walked back into hiss house, a deep frown on his face. Perhaps his little girl had gotten drunk and tried to go home, but some guy raped her on the street? He paled. What if she had sex last night and was too embarrassed to come home? What if she got pregnant? He didn't want to be a grandfather!

"ANDY!" he cried, flinging open the door and rushing into the house. Andrew was in the bedroom, pulling his socks on, when his blond husband came running in. "Oof!" he huffed as all the air rushed out of him. Disoriented, instead of his foot he now saw the off-white color of the ceiling behind Marks' tearful face.

"What is it, you big doofus? Did you find Isobel?" he asked grumpily. (He was always a grouch in the morning until he had his coffee.)

"NO! IT'S TERRIBLE!" he sobbed, burying his face into Andrew's sweater vest. Said man gulped, instantly alert. "What is it? What happened to her?" he asked sharply. Mark mumbled something in reply.

"Speak up, dammit!" said Andrew angrily. Mark lifted his tear-stained face and sniffed like a little lost dog. He looked so utterly miserable Andrew felt his heart crack in two. "What is it? What happened?" he asked, softer this time.

"W-we're gonna be grandaddies!" wailed Mark. Andrew blinked.

"What?"


When Isobel awoke it hurt. Her head, that is. "Mmph," she moaned, her voice muffled by a gag of some sort that tasted terrible, like it was used before and not washed.

It was dark, wherever she was, and it was cold. She tried to shiver and let out a cry. The movement caused the tightly bound ropes around her body to chafe terribly, the only warmth against the unforgiving atmosphere. She was laying down on a hard stone surface and she could only see a small sliver of light coming from her left. So that must mean she wasn't gagged.

'Where am I?' she thought. Her own mind sounded weak and feeble. She almost laughed at the sound of how completely weak she sounded, mentally. Almost.

There was no answer to her thoughts. She began to wonder why she was kidnapped, because that's so obviously what happened.

She lay there for what seemed like hours (and honestly they could have bee, she had no way to tell time except to count her breaths. [she was at 3,876]) when she heard footsteps coming her way, slow and heavy like some cliche horror film. It hit her then that this was no movie and when the door creaked open she really began to worry. The silhouette of her (captor?) loomed ominiously in the doorway and she swallowed around the cloth.

Her blood turned to ice at the Russian-accented voice.

"Hello, little Anastasiya."