The Sniper on The Roof
You should fairly be warned, but this story I'm about to tell is one of saddest stories ever. The murders of so many people brought the world crumbling to its feet, and all because of one man, a sniper, some money, and a sick girl. The police and the works of Mr. Kirkland and Mr. Bonnefoy have only unravelled about seventy percent of the story, while the remaining thirty is complete guesswork from the best minds from around the world.
Our story begins on a rainy night in the month of September. The clock was approaching midnight, and the party in the Nations Building ballroom was still raging. Jazz music and laughs could be heard from the outside, even onto a rooftop, some 50 feet away, where a man was sitting.
This man was probably the most peculiar sight. Everyone should be in bed by now, dreaming sweet dreams, under their warm blankets and away from the rain. The man was extravagantly dressed, his tailcoats flapping in the wind, his blonde hair whipping around his face as he opened a briefcase. He slowly pulled out a rifle, checked and double-checked the mechanisms, before attaching a scope to the barrel. The man brought the gun to his face, aiming the scope through a large, french window. His target? Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, age 25, otherwise known as Spain. The man sighed.
"For Adaleiz," he whispered, before pulling the trigger.
Antonio had been talking to Lovino, asking him how he had been, despite the flurry of curses he received in retaliation. He was just about to ask Lovino about how his country's tomato crop was doing before he felt something hit his back. Antonio inhaled once, went rigid, and fell down, blood draining from a single hole in his back.
"So this is how I die," Antonio thought to himself, "In a pool of my own blood."
There was a deep silence in the room, no one even dared to breathe. That, was when all hell broke loose. People bolted for the doors.
This is where the man chose the most opportune place. You see, the Nations Building was designed with the utmost security in mind. There is only door in and out of the building, and the only windows can be found on the fourth floor and above. The door can only be opened by a special keypad combination on the outside, that unfortuneately none of the guests knew.
As the rag-tag group of people approached the doors, they soon realized their worst dilemma.
"It's locked!" an American yelled out, his bomber jacket clearly visible, "There's no other way out!"
"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, whatever shall we do?" a small, asian woman whined.
"Would all of you please calm down?" a voice called out, a British accent penetrating every word.
"Oui, mes cheries, it will do us no good if we panic," another voice called out, this time, a French accent spilling itself over every word.
"We're detectives Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy. We urge you stay calm, and to allow the proper authorities to deal with this," Arthur called out, reaching his hand towards a phone on the wall.
Arthur brought the receiver to his ear, before he realized that there was no tone. Arthur calmly put the receiver back, hoping to look calm in front of everyone else.
"Ah, so, it seems that we do not have a telephone connection. Surely someone brought a cell phone?" Arthur asked.
"It's no good," came a quiet voice from near the back, "I do not have a signal, and my cell phone has a receiver twice the normal size. If I can't get one, no one can."
Arthur sighed and ran his hands through his short blonde hair. Surely this wasn't happening to him? This could all just be some horrible dream, but Arthur knew that he wasn't dreaming. He was awake, with one murder on his hands, and most likely more to follow.
"Well then. We advise all of you to stay calm, and to avoid going anywhere near windows," Arthur called out.
"Not go near any windows? Well then, I assume we should all just move to the basement and live like rats for the rest of the evening," a Hungarian woman called out.
"Please Elizaveta, if we don't stay out of the way, we may be the next ones shot!" the man beside her said worriedly, as he gripped her hand with both of his.
She drew her hand away.
"And leave those two to deal with an unknown killer? We may as well buy them tombstones and a casket as well. I say we all march right back up there. The killer won't try and murder so many of us if we're all together," she said gallantly, looking to others for support.
"Or he may start shooting madly. We've now lost one nation. The country of Spain is no more, it's now an empty area where life thrived. How would you like to see each of your countries fall next?" Arthur retaliated, his massive eyebrows furrowing, daring someone to oppose him.
Surprisingly, more people agreed with Elizaveta, despite the logic of Mr. Kirkland. The guests began their way up the stairs, all except for one.
"Please Elizaveta! Don't go up! We may not know who gets shot next!" the man argued, gripping her hands once more.
A hand came swiftly down onto the man's back, causing him to cough slightly.
"Lighten up, Roddy, it's still a party! Now stop being a priss and march yourself upstairs!" a silver-haired man said commandingly, gripping Roddy's hand in a firm grip before flying up the stairs.
"Thank you, Gilbert!" Elizaveta called out, as she began to climb the stairs.
Vash Zwingli, age 18, had just killed a man. Vash slowly brought the gun down from his body, and dropped it on the ground, his shoulders trembling.
"Don't focus on it," he mumbled to himself, "It's all for Adaleiz."
Adaleiz was currently in a hospital bed in Switzerland, a terminal brain cancer eating away at the last few remnants of her life. Vash's thoughts were cut short when his cell phone rang, blaring the Swiss national anthem.
"Hello?" he answered, hoping he could mask the sadness and fear in his voice.
"Zdravstvuite, Vash. Did you get the target?" a Russian voice asked.
"Y-yes I did. Can I get the money now?" Vash asked, hoping he get out of this business.
A small chuckle could be heard on the other line.
"No, not yet. You still have not proven to me just how much you love Adaleiz. Your next target shall be, oh let's see here...Heracles Karpusi, otherwise known as Greece. Understand?"
Vash was trembling with rage. He had just murdered a man in cold blood, and this still wasn't good enough for him to show love? Vash sighed. He still needed the money for the operation, and he was the only one who could pay for it.
"Yes. What time?" Vash asked, hoping that it wouldn't be too late.
"1:00, or 45 minutes from now. Call me then," and the line went dead.
Vash slowly closed his cell phone, tears welling up. He didn't want to kill, but Adaleiz was more precious to him than what that miserable bastard told him. Ever so slowly, Vash removed the equipment from the rifle, placed it back in the briefcase, and began to walk down the stairs, heading to the northern-most building, where he'd hopefully find Heracles.
Despite the logic of a killer being on the loose, all of the Nations headed back up to the ballroom, at least so that they may protect each other from the mysterious killer.
Elizaveta was talking animatedly to a small group of women, who laughed nervously at every joke, still afraid of the killer.
Gilbert had dragged Roddy over a small group of men, who were now intrigued at reliving their famous battles.
"We once took over Silesa in less than a day! Remember that, Roddy?" Gilbert asked, a nasty smile appearing on his thin lips.
"Yes, yes I do remember that, Gilbert," Roddy said, waving it away with his hand.
"My soldiers once roasted a man over a fire just to figure out where he kept his money. Warfare's come such a long way..." a man started, much to horrified looks of the others.
Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy were investigating the body of Antonio. It was highly inconvenient, as they were within plain view of an attack, but they couldn't move the body, lest they be tampering with the evidence.
Arthur had wrapped handkerchief around his hand, hoping to prevent cross-contamination. There wasn't a single first-aid kit in the entire building.
"Someone obviously had no sense when they planned this building," he muttered angrily, slowly immersing his fingers into the wound.
Francis, however, was not interested in the body or the building, but rather the window. His cerulean eyes were scanning the window mechanically, looking for something.
Arthur, I found the entry of the bulllet. It seems to have come from that building over there," Francis said, pointing his finger towards a large, corporate building.
"Ugh! I hope I never have to do that again!" Arthur grumbled, as his fingers pulled out a bullet, "Do you know what make it is?" Arthur asked, showing the bullet to Francis.
Francis shook his head, "I have no idea."
"And Vash isn't here, he'd be able to identify it in a moment," Arthur said, disheartened. Vash was the best nation with firearms, and could hit a target blindfolded.
"Maybe Alfred knows?" Francis suggested, shrugging his shoulders.
Arthur nodded his approval, before heading over to the group of men. Alfred was easily the most recognizable. His bomber jacket contrasted horribly with his tuxedo, and his voice could be heard from two floors above and below.
"So then I said to him, listen, we don't care that you didn't do anything to us, you're still communist!"
"Um, Alfred?" Arthur asked, blushing oh so slightly. He and America hadn't gotten along since that incident.
"Hi Iggy! What do you want?" America asked cheerfully.
"We were wondering if you knew what make this bullet was," Francis responded, his eyes flitting to each member of the group.
America studied it closely for the less than ten seconds.
"It's not American, so why should I care? Now, as I was saying," as America started off again.
Arthur returned disheartenedly to Antonio's body.
"So we have no idea who and why did this. Spain didn't have any enemies. Even Lovino liked him, and he tells to go die at least five times a day!" Arthur exclaimed, studying the body more closely.
"Indeed, it is most peculiar. Everyone, from the smallest child to the oldest woman, know that killing a nation kills the country. So who would stoop that low?" Francis asked, studying the glass again.
The sound of glass breaking was heard around the room, as people screamed and ducked for cover, and a single body slumped to the floor, blood pouring from the side of his head.