Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Though they are not set as countries in this story. This is a Human AU.

Warnings: This story is written historically accurate to the best of the writers ability. Research can only get you so far, so there will be some historical inaccuracies.
Extra warnings are that this is done during WWII, so there will be Nazi and Soviets. If this is a trigger dont read.
This dark story will also have war, psychological trauma, torture, insults of nationality, and... lot of other trigger things, so if you easily get offended please dont read it. Im serious.

Note: This story was written after a RP that was done. Please review cause i would love to hear what people think, but do not just bash for bashing sake, this is a RP and really wasnt meant to be posted but i stole their story. Love you Captain!
(Captain let me transpose their story and said it was fine to post it)

Battle Worn

Chapter One ~~~~~ Taken from Home ~~~~~

If you had asked him only a year ago if he'd ever dreamed it would come to this, Gilbert might have laughed. They'd advanced so far into the eastern front at the beginning, and so quickly. And now - so much, lost just as fast or faster, desperate troops retreating west to surrender to the Americans, to the British, and the ones left gradually realizing that they might be fighting to their deaths. That, or to an eventual surrender to the Soviets, which, if the stories were true, was hardly better.

Gilbert's knuckles were white around his rifle, already out of ammo, as he peered out the shattered window at the advancing Soviet troops. He'd seen boys fighting on the streets, scarcely teenagers; men who looked too old to be holding a weapon; even women with guns in their hands, desperate to hold off the enemy for a few more hours. Everyone's ammunition had run out by now in their makeshift fortification, and apart from the few soldiers there - survivors, most of them, and all of them wounded, who'd retreated as far as Berlin with their utterly decimated units - nearly everyone in the fortified building was a civilian, and many weren't of age to be fighting. Gilbert could hardly walk himself - the bullet wound in his calf made every step excruciating, and his pants leg was soaked with blood by now, although he hardly felt the pain anymore; his whole body felt numb. He was the only one, among the few soldiers left there, who'd been an officer, and as such he was the closest thing they had to a commander.

A commander who could, at that moment, have told them to keep fighting with knives and empty guns until they were all gunned down where they stood, or try to give them some last chance at life as the Soviets approached, and he heard a shout, in accented German, to drop their weapons and come out with his hands up. He was acutely aware of the gun slipping through his unsteady fingers as he pushed himself into a standing position, swaying slightly on his feet and then straightening. He would wear that dirty, bloodied uniform proudly to the end, if they meant to kill him, and he didn't have any intention of limping out like a weakling in front of the soldier.

"Lower your weapons," he told the others in a low voice.

It didn't take long for the order to be obeyed, half the remaining fighters looking almost relieved that it was over, the other half utterly stony-faced. He stepped out of the building first, the others hanging back, and approached the soldier at the head of the Soviet union with his hands up. They must have looked almost comical, he thought numbly, a bedraggled bunch like that playing at being a proper military unit in front of the organized Soviet troops.

"They are all unarmed, there is no more ammunition."

Ivan, the Soviet commander, walked towards the completely exposed German as he was followed by a troop of men all aiming their weapons at the opposing side. Finally, the fighting had ceased and the enemy decided to surrender. Surely this would be the battle to end the war. However, in some odd sinister way, Ivan was enjoying it. Especially this moment, The tattered people coming out of their hiding holes with their hands in the air, their clothes looking more like some blanket they found in the mud. Ivan's uniform was not in the best condition either but his looked more like he wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty than looking like someone beat him up.

"Guten tag" Ivan greeted in a purposely slaughtered German, the thickly-accented German made Gilbert cringe a little. He spoke very little Russian himself, beyond the few useful words and phrases contained in the German-Russian phrasebook the soldiers who'd faced the Soviet soldiers in Russia had been issued.

"So you've finally decided to give up your pathetic attempt at saving yourself?" Ivan rubbed in, walking up to Gilbert. This was, of course, rather risky but at this moment Ivan didn't care. He was going to take this victory and play with it a little. Gilbert should have been relieved to discover that he was at least being understood, but that butchered pronunciation, coupled with the smirk on the other officer's face, made his blood boil. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to calm down and behave himself. There was nothing to be gained by getting the other man angry, and everything, at this point, to lose - mainly, the lives of the civilians still behind him, trembling like leaves at the weapons aimed at them. They had never volunteered for this; they had never faced enemy guns before, or the possibility of immediate death. They had looked to him to protect them, and he was failing them. He let Ivan continue.

"Unless, of course, you would like some more ammunition? You can keep playing this game you play vainly. You already lost, but I can let you make sure you never play again. Your choice."

Ivan held out Nagant M1895 with the barrel facing himself and the handle facing Gilbert. The pistol was, of course, unloaded, but Gilbert didn't need to know that. If he took the gun, Ivan would order his men to kill everyone surrendering, if Gilbert refused, They would be taken prisoner.

Gilbert wasn't sure what the Soviet was playing at, though, and his eyes dropped to the gun being offered him and then lifted to the man's face, confused, and - he would never have admitted it, but he couldn't hide it entirely - frightened. It was tempting - for a moment, almost too tempting. He could take the gun and shoot the officer in the chest. It would be satisfying for just a moment, knowing that he had taken out one more Soviet before he was inevitably shot down in retribution, but the civilians behind him, who had looked to them as their leader, would, without a doubt, be killed immediately afterwards.

Maybe it wasn't the offer of one last shot at the enemy, though; maybe it was an opportunity to end his own life. I can let you make sure you never play again. That, at least, he was determined to turn down; he told himself that it was the coward's way out, had told himself that many times before, but truly, he was as afraid to die as any of them. Years of fighting had never entirely prepared him for the inevitability that he might not survive the war. He shook his head, hands still raised and kept away from his sides, fists clenched tightly to try and prevent them from shaking. There was blood running down his injured leg by now; he could feel it.

"Please let the others go," he responded, in a voice that, thankfully, came out steady. "They have done nothing, they're civilians, they have no weapons. I swear they won't trouble you again if you let them leave."

Ivan just stood there for a short moment, smirking at Gilbert. Gilbert relinquished the gun without protest, even if his fingers itched to reach for it again, raise it and fire between the other man's eyes, one last act of resistance and defiance before he was shot himself.

"Smart man." Ivan finally answered, taking back then offering and looking at it a moment before making a quick movement and firing the gun at the German. Gilbert regretted his decision to give it up, as that same gun was lifted, aimed at him, and before Gilbert fully understood what was happening, he heard the click as the trigger was pulled, and the realization sank in that the weapon had been empty the whole time. He exhaled shakily, stepping backwards unsteadily and feeling his injured leg protest the movement.

"Just had to make sure you truly gave up. Truly abandoned all hope of winning anymore." Ivan chided as he walked around Gilbert. Once Ivan walked completely around him, he leaned in close to him and gripped his chin harshly.

"Truly gave up any dignity." He muttered harshly through a smirk at Gilbert. The German soldier gritted his teeth, but didn't pull away as his chin was gripped, fingers digging in to his skin hard enough to bruise. He could feel his cheeks heat with anger and humiliation, and his hands were still trembling slightly.

As soon as Ivan pulled away he shouted orders at his troops to round everyone up and bring the trucks. He wanted all the civilians brought to one building to be put on a census and anybody in military uniforms to be loaded on the trucks.

"Cooperate and no harm will come to you." The Soviet soldiers shouted as they advanced. None of the civilians were protesting, at this point, white-faced and silent as they were rounded up and counted; several of them were looking to Gilbert, as their de facto leader, and, unable to do much more than watch, he held himself straight and upright as much as he could, trying not to look afraid and focusing, instead, on the Soviet commander. Ivan stayed in front of Gilbert as another Soviet came and handcuffed him.

"Yes, sir," the cuffed man responded, voice rather tense. As long as the others were still right there, it felt only prudent to try and cooperate, even if the respectful address tasted sour in his mouth.

"How about this, Nazi." Ivan spoke that words harshly, "since you were one to come forth and confront me, I give special treatment. You get own van. It'll go to special place." Ivan chuckled.

"I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

"That's very gracious of you, I'm sure I'll enjoy it as well."

Gilbert, despite it all it was hard to entirely keep the faint mockery out of his voice, or from his face, the bitter smile that twisted his lips humorlessly.

Ivan sneered at Gilbert's response. It wasn't as much fun when they play along with sarcastic confidence. Ivan liked it better when his victims responded in fear and humiliation, but if this one was going to play along then very well. Ivan was going to make it fun.

As the trucks rolled in, Soviets unloaded from them to secure the perimeter. Cheering could be heard from all around as the Soviets celebrated their victory. Ivan smiled and placed an arm around Gilbert.

"You hear that, little mouse? That's the sound of your defeat. No doubt this loss for you will be the victory for the allies." He spoke to him in a mocking way, putting on him a considerable amount on weight to make it difficult for him to walk.

The sounds of cheering and celebratory shouts in German made Gilbert's blood boil, although he tried to keep his face neutral, refusing to let the others see how much it affected him unless he had no other choice. He couldn't entirely help his reaction, though, when the Soviet commander stepped over to him, throwing an arm around his shoulders that might, under different circumstances, have felt almost affectionate; he tensed, flinching away for a moment, and then the grip tightened and he stumbled back into position. The man was putting a significant amount of weight on him at this point, which, coupled with his cuffed hands and injured leg, made it nearly impossible to continue moving forward.

"Let go of me," Gilbert retorted, voice low, some of the confidence gone from his voice – it was difficult to speak without letting the pain of trying to walk under the strain creep into his voice.

"Just think. You'll be the reason your country lost. At least you'll be praised as the person who finally let the war end. Well, at least the memory of you will." He chuckled before letting him go as other soldiers forced him into the back of a ZIS-5 truck.

Nearly hitting his head against the side as he was shoved in. Gilbert picked himself up off the floor as best as he could manage, making it up to his knees; his leg wouldn't allow much more than that.

"Wait," he managed.

"Hope your cozy in there. It's a long way home." Ivan chuckled.

Gilbert had no idea if he'd get any answer at all, let along a truthful one, but perhaps at least a little more information could still be obtained, one less thing to agonize over during the journey by truck.

"Where are they taking me?"

Ivan blatantly ignored the Germans request to let him go, mentally chucking to himself how funny it was that this German thought he had any authority to give such command.

The Soviet commander simply smiled at Gilbert when he pleaded to wait, thinking it was cute how pathetic he looked cuffed and on his knees in the back of a truck ready to be shipped off to someplace he probably never heard of.

"I thought you would enjoy visiting camp? Don't worry. It's not as bad as your camp. This one will be much. more. fun."

Ivan's smile spoke more sinister than it had anything else.

"So sit back. Enjoy ride and try not to get too excited." He chuckled before waving his hand to order the doors closed. That was hardly an answer, Gilbert had hoped he might get a location, at least, and perhaps even some idea of what might happen to him when he reached his final destination, but the latter had been particularly optimistic, and in the end, the Soviet's words hardly gave him any information at all. A POW camp, he guessed - which, if the Soviets' reputation held true, might have been a few tents set up outdoors or a proper compound, but which in any case was unlikely to be pleasant. He didn't ask any further questions, though; something about the mocking look on the Soviet commander's face shut his mouth before he could say anything else, and he fell silent and turned his face away as the door was closed. The back of the truck was almost completely dark besides a few bullet holes throughout the sides. After lying in the back of the truck for a moment, heart hammering, Gilbert forced himself to get up and crawl over to one of the holes to look out, dragging his injured leg to avoid hurting it any further, the movement awkward with his cuffed hands. From that angle, there was very little to see, except more Soviet soldiers.

Just to add a final touch to his terrorizing, Ivan banged the metal sides with his fists as if he were a child banging on the glass of a fish tank. Gilbert was quickly beginning to get nervous, and the sudden banging on the metal side of the truck, hard enough to force him back away from the bullet hole, genuinely scared him before he realized what it had been. He took a few deep breaths to try and calm down, closing his eyes and huddling on the floor of the truck while he waited for it to move. Ivan had a bit of business to finish up before he could leave.

Gilbert was waiting a long time. Several more times, he got up to try and look out, without much more success. He heard several gunshots, the noise making him flinch; more than once, someone cried out. The truck Gilbert was in wasn't even started until roughly 6 hours later. The time before, all sorts of people talking, yelling, some cheering, even a few gun shots here and there; other vehicles moving around the truck, and unfortunately some crying out could be heard. Once the truck Gilbert was in moved immediately, not even being particularly gentle, the German was a nervous wreck by this time, the jolting start to send Gilbert sliding across the floor and hitting hard into the truck back. There were several other starts and stops, most of them uncomfortably hard, and he was bruised up within a few hours, but the truck didn't stop again. He'd lost track of time quickly, but at the very least, the faint amount of light coming through the bullet holes fading told him that it was night by now. The truck drove, and drove. For what seemed like forever.

Gilbert hadn't managed to get any sleep; unable to really catch himself when the truck turned sharply or jolted to a halt, he'd knocked into the sides of the truck repeatedly and was bruised and aching within hours, and curled into a ball to try and protect himself by the time the truck finally stopped altogether. It was pitch-black in the back by now; it must have been well into the night, no light coming in through the bullet holes in the side, and Gilbert waited, anxious and restless.

Only until Several hours into the night did the truck finally start to slow down, Making a few stops, a couple of turns; giving enough familiar movement of being in a base or camp. Finally it had stopped completely. Soviet voices yelled around the truck, giving orders; dozens of footsteps and marching could be heard.

Finally, the latches of the truck door was unlocked and upon the doors opening, a blinding spot light met Gilbert from the outside.