"Go on, shoot. You know you can't do it." - Prologue

(Third person)

The busy, main road pub was like it had always been for many years prior. Busy, noisy, a typical Saturday night. A few sports fans watching an on-going hockey game. Friends going out drinking together. A few young men flirting with other girls. Teenagers trying alcohol for the first time, just the usual. But tonight of all nights, something was drastically different. For today, the mass of pub goers weren't centred around a sports game, their friends, possible future lovers, or the first taste of a salty beverage. Everyone that night was paying attention to the two young, blond men standing at gun point in the middle of the messy room.

"Go on, do it," the younger, cow-licked teen boldly said as the small yet deadly weapon was pushed deeper into his fast beating, large-for-his-age chest. It didn't matter how this all began anymore, quite frankly, no one really knew how the situation had come to such an extreme at all, but, if someone was at gunpoint I know anyone would be more concerned about how to stop a shooting than wanting to know why this was even happening in the first place.

"Come on dude. Is it really that hard?" the teen swallowed and coxed boldly.

The slightly older English-looking man just clenched his teeth in a blindly aggressive way. Could he do it? Shoot a complete stranger? Someone he had never meet before? He could do it, end a stranger's life, but how could he? Sure it would be easy, but why would he? He had already gotten this far by pointing a loaded gun at someone's chest, so why stop now? Dark, distorted and very confused thoughts filled the messy-haired Brit.

He had the inhuman urge to shoot the stranger, despite his own morals screaming at him not to do so.

The younger man took a deep breath in. "Go on, shoot. You know you can't do it," he said calmly with his soft, light blue eyes showing though his fresh sadness. Was he crazy? No, they both where, and they needed to stop now before anyone was hurt.

The tension in the air was becoming unbearable.

There's no way I can shoot you. I can't! came a daunting, unclear delusion. God, of all times, why start up again with those stupid day dreams? The British man was branded crazy as it was, but today showed just how high the scale of crazy was going to have to be.

But despite of everything, the other people in the pub trying to stop him, the screams and shouts, his very own morals and thoughts screaming at him, he shoved the cold weapon deeper into the teen's chest. He held his breath and finally pulled the warm trigger.

The loud, echoing sound of a gunshot erupted, breaking the atmosphere of the night-time tavern.

An overwhelming satisfying feeling of a long awaited revenge filled the guilty man. He hated every blip of it. This boy was a complete stranger, so why was he so compelled to end his life? The older man just stood there staring at the now lifeless teen at his feet waiting for the reason to cry. Waiting for the guilt to finally overthrow him.

Yet it somehow never came. The British man felt like some form of demonic, unholy monster.

A short, dark-haired Asian-looking man ran out-side clenching something on his ear. Was he calling 9-1-1? Good call. Other that slight movement, either to get closer to the body or the leave the pub entirely, everyone was completely silent as they wondered what the best thing to do would be. Most of the people there just stood there in utter shock. None more apparent than the shaken, thick-eye browed man clenching a smoking gun in his flickering left hand.

Why? Dammit, why?! It's not fair!he mentally screamed. This didn't sound at all like his own thoughts. Where were they coming from?

"Pull yourself together," he said quietly still shaken as he loosely dropped the gun on the floor. He had done it, hadn't he? He really was crazy. "You can't put it of any longer. You really are crazy," he declared to himself.

Some poor person began to cough violently. Who was it? And more importantly, given the situation, did it really matter to anyone? There was a dead body coughing up blood and no one seems to- wait a moment... What is he doing? Everyone was staring at the blood body in the middle of the room. How was he doing this? Wasn't he just shot?No one in the room knew what to do. Everyone sawhim get shoot. A wound like that should leave him completely immobilized at the very least. He should not be able to even move, let alone be able to sit in some form of a backwards morphed push-up position coughing up a dangerously large amount of dark blood. Some thing was definitely out of place here. Definitely.

"Bloody hell Arthur!" the teen wimped out, "That was a bit much don't ya think?!"

His voice sounded off. Not a wrong or bad off, but a healthy, almost healed off. It sounded like it had far too much life in it. Nothing seemed to match with him anymore. What seemed to stand out the most in his speech was the small breath hitch as he shouted 'think'. It wasn't an 'oh-I-just-remembered-something-important' hitch or an 'I've-just-told-you-something-I-shouldn't-have' hitch or even an 'I've-failed-at-trying-not-to-say-something-stupid' hitch, or maybe it was; they all seem to sound the same. No, this was an 'I-just-shared-a-piece-of-information-with-everybody-that-I-didn't-even-know-I-knew' hitch. That was quiet the rare one.

"Arthur?" The British man quietly repeated the dying man's words. "W-why a-are you still able to speak?! And how do you know my name? Who the bloody hell ARE you?!" he rapidly asked, letting his fear take over.

The teen just lay there trying to catch his breath. "You don't know who I am?" He asked with notable concern in his voice.

"I...I don't know." The older man said as he stood in silence. He looked down at his dying victim, yet he still didn't feel the need to cry. He still could not believe what he had done. He had... shot someone. Someone he didn't even know. ...Or did he? Why did the person know his name? Who was he? All these questions were racing though the Brit's head and speech.

Besides that, the teen was trying very hard to comprehend what the heck was even happening. "I should be dead," he mumbled to himself. "Then why aren't I?" He was right. He shouldbe. But against everything somehow he wasn't. The situation was becoming far too much for anyone to handle. Not a single person in the crowd could seem to move, yet a younger girl in her early teens managed to get though the stricken people. At least someone was brave enough to intervene.

The teen's breathing pattern soon went back to normal as he sat, well attempted to sit there blood-covered and in a quiet daze. He tried to get up using the girl as an aid. He stumbled, and fell back down. In the next moment, he struggled to take of his well-aged, brown jacket that was now made even heavier with the weight of his own blood. The sound of two sirens began to grow louder as they seemed to get closer. As they got closer, it was easier to tell what the two cars were: a police car and an ambulance by the look of it. The drivers came just in time to see two young men covered in blood yelling at each other. The two paramedics came to the teen's aid with medical tools in hand. They sat him down. The teen forced the remainder of his large brown jacket off. A tall blond police officer came towards the alleged 'Arthur'.

Now he knew it was too late. The police had already appeared. Once again, he looked down at the stranger he had shot at. What is wrong with me? What did I do?! He hadn't done anything to me... or did he?! These questions and many more were racing through his mind.

He looked like a very serious type of person. He gave an angry, disgusted look at the traumatised Brit standing before him. He took out a new-looking red notebook and began to write something down. There was a large amount of commotion and noise going on behind him yet he didn't seem at all fazed. 'Arthur' didn't dare look over the tall officer's shoulder to see what was going on, even though he was curious too. He was in enough trouble as it was already.

"Zhis is not very good," the officer mumbled to himself in an accented voice. Every few seconds he would look from writing to briefly study his surroundings. His eyes finally trailed towards the floor next the Brit where the gun now lay. His blue eyes narrowed and let them pierce though his subject. He wasn't very amused.

The European man held his breath and swallowed hard. He wanted to say something in his defence, but what? "I-I" He tried to state only to be quickly cut off.

"Save it. No one 'ear wants to hear it," the police officer stopped him sounding annoyed. He had heard it all before.

Something drastic was definitely happening towards the centre of the pub. It was kinda hard to tell what was going on, but it sounded as if a fight was just about to break out. A very loud one at that. A distant "Hey! come back!" could he heard. The tall officer began to twitch momentarily. He looked up with annoyed and tired eyes, the eyes you have just before you yell or scold at someone. He held his head up and listened for a moment. He bit his lip and took a deep breath in and turned around.

"Vhat is going on?" He asked/yelled at the sight before him. 'Arthur' looked around also.

"He, he-" One of the uniformed man attempted to stutter out.

"Vhat?"

"H-he just ran away!" the confused paramedic said repeating himself to the bland police officer.

"….Who?" The police officer said with slow-growing yet still near lost concern in his voice.

"T-the patient! He just, just ran away!" the young, shaken man replied not even believing his own actions. He had a point though. All that was in front of him was a messy patch of blood. There should have been a body there.

The police officer looked at him without a second look. "How? Was-I-isn't he dead?"

"APPARENTLY NOT!" The second, older paramedic replied painting loudly as he let out a previously hidden sarcastic look.

Without a word from anyone, the British man walked slowly to where the teen's body had previously been. "Whoever he is," he said with no-one stopping him, "This boy definitely isn't a normal one... I'm sure by that. How can he run? RUN?! He... just disappeared... like... POOF and then gone. He should be dead by now." The man sighed. "Is he still running? God, is that boy trying to kill himself?" He asked himself half hoping to get some sort of an answer.

"Thank you Sherlock," the police officer said after only half paying attention to what had just said. "It's far too early in the frigging' morning for me," he sighed.

"It's still night-time, sir," the first and ginger haired paramedic said trying not to sound rude.

The police officer just gave an aggravated look. "You know what I mean," he stated bluntly.

The ginger paramedic picked up and closely examined the discarded jacket that had been left on the cold ground. It was …weird. It was made of tough leather and could have easily been decades old. It looked like it had been stained with someone's blood ages ago, before today that was. It was also very dry, far too dry to have just been worn by the same person who owned it.

'Arthur' was quite surprised to see it detail close-up. "So how come it's already dry... how interesting. Does that mean that his blood could have dried already? Is this even his own blood? And if so, how could it have started to fade already? That, that would mean that he wound could already be healed, right?" He asked the people in fount of him.

The policeman gave an 'are-you-trying-to-cover-yourself-up?' sort of look and simply replied with an "I don't know," after finally hearing him fully.

"... No." the Brit quietly replied. "I've meet some pretty strange people in my time, but that boy truly is strange." The Brit couldn't stop thinking about him. The strange young man, who somehow also knows him, that had just disappeared, even though he had just been shot. Will he return? Will I ever see him again? 'Arthur' felt quite stunned even thinking that.

"Looks like it," the second medic said as the remaining pub goers crowded around the front entrance of the pub. It was kind of hard to make out what was going on, but it looked like everyone was standing around something being held up by a few other people. Was it the teen? It looked like it, but it was incredibly hard to tell.

The police officer (followed by the second medic) tried very hard to get though the rowdy crowd that was gathering around the doorway. As both got closer and as the drunken crowd grew louder and more chaotic, people began to grow impatient. "Who was he?" What was he?" "Is he okay?" It seemed that no one knew the answers to any of these questions. Everyone seemed to want answers, and it looked like they were not going to stop at anything to find out who the two men in question were.

But, just take a moment to realise what it was like for the poor young, blond man that night. If he were to know what was going to happen, would he have tried to stop it? If he could, yes. Like anyone normal, he would have fought ages ago.

"This was all a bloody set-up. He must have... God I don't know anything anymore..." He cursed under his limited breath. He didn't even know any of them, so why must they of acted so irrationally towards him? It just didn't make any sense. If they wanted revenge for something, there were surely much better, cleaner, and easier ways to do it. They could have told him something prior, without all these newly accumulated ones, one example would be what the hell was even happening to him. He felt the pain, he collapsed on the floor in a pool of his of blood and within a few minutes, he was okay enough to run. Run. He didn't even know how he did it, just the nagging urge to get away from everyone and everything as fast as possible. That can be quite difficult when you are no more than a murder victim.

The teen, still surrounded by the crowd, began to cough up dark, almost black clotted blood. He was quickly dropped by the two hockey fans and fell to the ground. He couldn't stop bleeding from his mouth and coughing, and he just sat there bleeding out of his mouth with a large lump in his throat. It was only a few moments before it surfaced. The teen fell over to all-fours and coughed out a dying sound. He began to choke as he franticly tried to breathe. By third time, the second paramedic had managed to come beside him for his aid. He took out a large, white cloth, a hanky of some form, and held it to the teens face. He positioned his body so it would be easier to cough.

The teen gaged, and spat something into the now red hankie. He stopped coughing, lifted whatever it was off his tongue and held it away from himself. The room went silent he tried to catch his breath. First a pant, then back to a normal breathing pattern. He dropped the hankie onto the bloody floor, and looked with a hateful look directly at a taller, dark-haired man standing at the front of the crowd.

The British man saw all of this unfolding in front of him. With every passing moment he began to feel worse. He much of asked himself why so many times it wasn't even funny anymore. He began to hate himself even more for what he had done. "This boy is about to die because of me," he recalled to himself. Why? Why did he just want to do it? Then it struck him. Since everyone was facing the young boy, I could just walk away he thought to himself. Thinking about it, he really had no need to stay. No, he thought to himself. That wouldn't be right. It would be easy, and he didn't want to get arrested, but how could he? That would just make it worse.

The British looking man forced himself to stay put. He was storming though his head different excuses to what he had done. "God... I really am crazy..." he said quietly to himself. There was no use denying it now. There was just something about him. Something, just different about him. It was like he knew him... But 'Arthur' was certain that they had never met in his life. Then just…. why?

A longer haired man from deep within the noisy crowd looked right at him. Avoiding eye contact, the British man looked down and shut his eyes tightly. It wouldn't have made any difference really.

The person looked him up and down and sighed. "You've done it now Art," he said quietly not believing his eyes.

Across the room, the teen was sitting on the floor with the two medics at either side. He was giving a full-hearted death-stare to the older man. The older man looked around to see if the teen was looking at something else, quickly realising that it was for him, mouthed back a slow 'I didn't do this.'

Yeah right, the teen thought with a roll in his sleepy, pink eyes. Hehadto of have something to do with this.

It all seemed like the perfect way to get revenge on someone that had truly done the worst.

The older man pushed through the crowd. "Alfred," he said in a hurt tone of voice as he tried to speak up, to prove his claim of innocence.

The teen looked up. "Don't touch me," he quietly snarled as the older man got closer. He had had enough now. He grit his teeth and got ready for an argument, or a fight.

"If I..." The older man said with his voice trailing off.

"If you could what?" the teen interrupted. "Do it cleaner? Have fewer witnesses? What?!" He yelled as he fought off the two young men at either side of his bloody body. The older man stumbled back when the teen lunged right at him. He pushed the teen away, having him land on the floor with a painful 'omph.'

"You'd think that I'd do this to you?" He asked almost sarcastically though his bored, southern accent.

The teen forced his head up only to enforce a "Yes. Yes I do, you liar!"

The older man looked betrayed. "You think that I would kill you?!" the older man, also almost to the point of screaming, replied in almost complete disbelief. How could Alfred even think that? He thought to himself as the teen stared at him, taking deep, aggressive breaths. Weren't we friends...? His thoughts trialled off as he remembered what the teen was for him all those years ago. They were close enough to almost be brothers. Now look at the pair. This really wasn't the Alfred that he had known for all those long years.

The teen forced himself up and reached out to grab the worn-out collar of the older man's shirt, making his stumble slightly backwards. Everyone froze. The tall police officer tried to separate the two men but the teen appeared too strong. "Blood hell...THEN EX-FUCKING-PLAIN THIS!?" he shouted blindly.

The older man through him down for the second time, only this time he didn't hold back on force. The teen didn't hesitate to strike back. In the same moment that he jumped up, he was met with a violent kick to the face.

The teen fell on to the blood-marked carpet. The two paramedics ran to his aid and the police officer held back the older man. The tears of the teen were becoming more and more apparent with each passing moment. The teen was completely speechless due to pure shock. But after only a few moments, the bloody-mouthed teen got ready to protest again.

"SOMEONE PLEASE FUCKING EXPLAIN WHAT IS GOING ON," the teen screamed though his tears. He had completely given up hope. There wasn't any point left. He was so confused. Nothing all day had made a single lick of scene, none of it! And then this is to happen! Why?! What did I ever do?! This asshole had better explain himself, the teen exploded quietly to himself.

"Jason..." The teen cried though his blind anger. The older man tried to defend himself but was quickly cut-off.

"You fucking want me to die, don't you?"

"No-no I-"

"You planed all of this."

"Why would I have done this?" The older man asked quickly. It was becoming more apparent of what he was thinking. He would never plan on killing him. It was all just a very well timed event that was all! No-one was buying it though. They were all taking the side of the shaken teenager. He had the right to, but he was panicking, heavily over reacting.

But who could blame him? For all he knew, he should not be able to do any of the things that he was able to. Even breathing was all too confusing and painful to get one's head around. He had passed instant death like it was nothing. Something desperately needed to be explained now.

"Alfred you-"

"Are what?!"

The older man let go of his concerns self. "For fuck's sake! You're FINE!" He tensed as if he was getting ready to punch the teen.

Fighting everything trying to hold him down, the teen shouted. "Oh am I?! Well in case you haven't noticed you cracker, I-"

"Oh let it go already! Nations can't be killed from a simple bullet you know that! You're fine! Stop acting like a child an-"

The room was quite at the older man's hitch. An 'oh-shit-I-really-shouldn't-have-done-that' hitch. Now that was a rare one.

One that both men, for the sake of their lives, would quickly come to regret.

Gaah, I hope you all like my crappy Prologue... I swear, the rest of the story is funny. I just wanted to start with this, that's all.

This was originaly a RP I did with someone over Instergram, so in-turn a one-shot. But heck it. ^_^ This chapter was really hard to write, but the rest will be easer!

Thanks to MastermindKakashi for being my on-line editor when my mother couldn't help, it really helped to had a third person was quite helpful. :)

So yeah. That's it. I'm sorry if I ruined any USUK fans out there, but if you look past that, you can see at least 5 other nations in the story. I won't say who though. :3