Warnings: Character deaths (implied, mostly), nuclear war, nuclear apocalypse, blood/gore. Set during the Cold War, can be seen as a 1983: Doomsday AU. My take on the last thoughts of the superpowers on the dawn of their greatest and last mistake.

Disclaimer: I usually forget these. But I can only wish I owned Hetalia, and that's why this is here - I'm borrowing Hidekaz Himaruya's work and twisting it to fit my imagination. Still does not make it mine, not the characters, names, or anything else related to Axis Powers Hetalia. Except the story below, the idea's mine and the plot is mine. And I don't make money from this. *sigh* We all wish that, don't we?

99 Luftballons

Side by side we face each other
Standing here alone together

We're a pair of idiots.

If all of their power and might, all of the weaknesses they had ever tried to cover, all of the lies and truths they had ever told were taken away from them, and they were stripped only to their very being, the bare minimum of themselves, their souls and their core, their hearts,... They were just a pair of rash, blundering idiots with poor judgement and lack of sense of reality.

That wasn't true anymore, actually; the taste of reality they were getting now was a bitter and strong one, and it tasted of blood, fire, radiation - or that's what they thought, they could only speculate. The first taste they had now, in truth, was one of fear, threat, and absolute powerlessness.

They had not been able to see what was coming. They hadn't known the true effects or the extent of their actions, they couldn't imagine what would actually happen. They couldn't fathom that two men, who though they had lived longer than anyone ever had, had never been able to foresee such destruction or such power at the tips of their fingers. And when they were these two men, they hadn't really thought twice about it - they had taken it for granted, they had used it to threaten the other and strengthen their own might and their own power for their own selfish and thoughtless purposes.

Idiots left unsupervised for too long.

Too much power, too much ability, too little sense.

Alfred with his great views of the future. His grand ideas of saving the world, magnificent and bold acts against the evil threatening to take over the world. His knack for risk and success, his booming economy, his whirring industrial machine, the strength of a million men, a million guns, a thousand planes and ships and cannons and bombs. A handful of nuclear weapons. Alfred, with his paranoid fears, with his threats that tried to conceal the true terror he felt inside, the scared young boy that had been forced to grow up and grasp the world too soon, too fast. Alfred, who had risen on top of the world faster than anyone and made an empire for himself by just existing, barely having control of his own nation. He had had half the world at his feet, and continued to make himself broader, because he was scared of what happened if he were to ever wither away and be forgotten, fall from power like all the other great empires before him. Alfred, the hero, who had helped everywhere around the world, helped everyone but himself. His scared youth, his scared power, his lies and threats and glares hidden behind a million-dollar grin and electric eyes that tried to hide away the weakness he felt so often, the paranoia and fear he refused to acknowledge, to admit to. Alfred, with his overwhelming dread and horror that morphed into an uncontrolled panic.

Ivan, with his secluded country and his trusting people. His need for safety and security for the people he cared about the most, his people, those he would die for, those he needed to protect and ensure their safety. The world's fastest transfer from agricultural, backwards society to that of an industrialised and militarised world power. With his need to assure himself and ascertain his control, his broad power extending from his family, to his friends, neighbours, Alfred's neighbours. The carefully planned economy, the well-though-out lives of his people, the new ideals of revolutionary thinkers from the same century, whose ideas had caused so much change in so many lives. Ivan, whose powerful government who knew anything and everything, the blind loyalty of him and his people, the fast development. Ivan, with the wide area of his land, the safety it offered him when threatened, the ability of strategic thinkers, the disciplined army and the ability to adjust. Ivan, with the strength of a marching army and their new world-class weapons had extended from Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic, with the power he had concentrated to is borders from fear of the outside world, his mistrust of those who he once called friends. Ivan, with his need for security, his fears, his scare, his second-guessing of every intention, his desperation for outmanoeuvring the enemy.

Two stupid, thoughtless, paranoid, childish, fearsome and fearful idiots who were given too much strength, too much wealth, too much power and too much influence.

Who were given too much to destroy each other in too little time.

Exactly what we did, isn't it?

And as Moscow and Washington D.C., among so many other cities of the East, the West, the North and the South, erupted into a chaotic madness of people, the two men - who only days, hours, before could have been seen as boys, careless children playing with new, shiny, bright and loud toys that opened so many different possibilities - these men now stood unmovingly in the middle of those capitals, where they belonged. At the centre of the nation, at their own heart, this was where they would stand, watch and die. This was where they would wait as Death came to greet them.

No, not greet.

Not even Death would greet them. Death, the master of the end of life, the end of everything, would most likely shun them, despise and loathe them, these two who had so carelessly handled the lives of billions, who had so carelessly thrown it all to the wind, so thoughtlessly and dismissively. They had been given the opportunity to kill, injure, destroy and murder thousands upon thousands upon thousands, and without a second thought they had taken it. It was inhumane, it was insane, but then again, so were they, really.

They watched as people were crowding the streets, crowding the parks and every place outside, trying to find a car, find a place to hide, a place fro safety, blaring alarms ringing a warning of death like a knell of doom, rising and waning repeatedly as it drowned out the panic of human voices in an ear-shattering manner. It looked like doom already, even though it was nowhere near yet. Cars soon crashed, fatalities were already rising, and each of them sent a growing pain into the nations' hearts. Windows were smashed as people tried desperate getaways. Streets and roads were blocked as people went both ways, trying to find the closest exit, the closest highway, wherever they could get out - they knew, they knew that if they could find a highway, they had a fast way, if only they could reach it, if only they could find it fast enough to reach a safe place, to be out of reach, for as long as it took for the city to be destroyed to dust, for as long as it took for the radiation to travel, if only -

It was a lost hope, beyond prayers and beyond safety. The voices inside their heads only grew louder and more numerous and more frantic, they wanted to scream it all out, scream and shout and yell how it was all lost, everything, nothing would remain, there was nothing to be done, they were all dead already! They had fucked up so bad, once and for all, a final time, one last time before their impending deaths, and the last thing they decided to do was fuck up, fuck the world over, destroy it all.

He stood, ignoring the screams of a dying people, not even tears falling as he realised it was his fault, he had caused it all, all this could have been avoided if he had only stopped in time, if he had...

It's our fault. It's my fault. There's no difference.

The first warhead hit. Burns clawed into his skin and blood soaked and tainted his shirt, a sickly yellow oozing from the wounds, the substances staining it for an eternity, a proof of the end of the world as he knew it. Radioactively violet and electrically blue eyes turned to their surroundings, to see it one last time, one final time before it was all gone, before they were all gone, before he was all gone. He didn't look, he didn't blink, his eyes only watching. He didn't cry, shout, complain or scream - he didn't deserve it. Second, third, fourth... How many had been sent? Neither remembered, but they felt the wounds the same, they counted at the same time, their thoughts were exactly the same, and it was now, at the end of the world, the end that they had caused because they never agreed and never were civil and never saw eye to eye, it was now that they finally united in their minds and thoughts, it was now that they apologised and forgave the other wordlessly, they becaem a single mind in the doom they had caused.

And now, both would live as long as it took for his people to be completely annihilated, destroyed, become a mangled land - where once used to be culture and buildings and people and joy and life would now stand tall and looming the raw stench of death, the acrid tang of burnt flesh, would rise the ash and dust that the centuries of life had become in mere seconds. He felt his lungs being crushed, his body twisted and bent and torn to pieces while remaining together, he felt his blood expanding and contracting at the same time, and he wished to die but knew he wouldn't, not until every remaining man, woman and child that still lived in his country had died. That wouldn't take long.

Washington D.C., ashes.

Moscow, dust.

New York, burnt.

Saint Petersburg, lifeless.

Los Angeles, obliterated.

Novosibirsk, soon forgotten.

Chicago, bones.

Volgograd, blood.

San Francisco, flattened.

Chelyabinsk, nothing.

What of the others? I forgot them all.

Alfred thought of those countries that he had sworn to protect. Those countries that had been his allies, his friends and his family, those who had joined him because they thought they would be safer, better off, that they would be on the winning side. Those with whose help he had conquered the world. He thought of Arthur, his former caretaker, his brother and father at the same time, the one who had always loved ever since their very first meeting. He thought of how Arthur had been the one who first pushed his build-up of strength. It was because of Arthur that he had grown up and gained independence from the same man - and by beating a worldwide superpower, and empire, and marked that empire's downfall, he had ensured his rise to being one, he had become one faster than any other country on the planet. He thought of how they had both fought in the two most terrible wars of humanity, together, side by side, making plans of winning, how Alfred had helped Arthur out, how Arthur had reassured Alfred's fears. He thought of how Arthur was the one person he could trust to stick by his side through anything and everything.

Except Matthew. Matthew did anything and everything with and for Alfred and vice versa, with his twin, his best friend, his neighbour, his first friend and acquaintance, his first help and aid and trust and advisor. The one he could count on to trust everything Alfred did, though sometimes the suspicions arose, but they were quickly put away to leave space for trust. And Alfred trusted Matthew. Matthew, who had been the one everyone liked, but everyone forgot, the one that had seen him at his complete worst - when he had snapped once or twice when the pressure just was too much - and his best, who had celebrated with Alfred, rejoiced with him, cried with him, hurt with him, and sometimes argued with him, but only rarely. And now that Alfred knew that he had caused his brother worse pain than ever, that he knew he had betrayed Matthew, he couldn't be there to apologise, couldn't be there to hold Matthew as he was making a lonely death somewhere in Canada, far away from Alfred, unreachable in the cold north. Matthew, who had trusted Alfred, and now was in deadly pain, caused by Alfred, without Alfred anywhere.

He thought of Francis, whom he had always held in respect though he did crack jokes at him very often. A former Empire, too, a powerful kingdom, who had seen more revolutions and shifts of power than he had with his politics in turmoil. He thought of Ludwig, whom he had helped rebuild and gain a new status in the world. Whom he had helped back on his feet, only for now to be bombed to the ground. He thought of Kiku, his only ally in the hostile east, who was all alone on his island, who had now been twice attack by similar deadly and horrible weapons, who had suffered from both sides, who had forgiven Alfred, but now was hurt because of Alfred, again. He thought of sweet Feliciano, or his more asshole brother Lovino, who cared for him. Or Antonio, whom he had fought many times against. He thought also of Yao, how silly their hostilities had been, how good friends they had used to be before everything.

He thought of Ivan, and whom would Ivan be thinking of, and what would Ivan be doing, and what he was seeing. Was it something similar? Bright lights and burning buildings and dying and dead people and crushed cars and crushed buildings and crushed memories. He knew that Ivan was regretting it as well. He knew that he forgave Ivan, and that Ivan forgave him for the stupid and petty arguments they had had that had led to the worst mass death of human - universal history.

And regret it, Ivan did. He was thinking of his sisters. Yekaterina, who was always so lovely and so sweet to him. Who had given him the mangled and burnt and destroyed scarf that used to be around his neck all the time, through anything and everything. He thought of how cruel he had been to her, how he must have hurt her so bad by starving her, how violent he could get sometimes. But she was so sweet, and lovely, and nice, and how she would be standing here and telling him that all this was wrong, but that she still knew he hadn't done it on purpose. Neither of them had. But it had happened. And though she might forgive him, she wasn't here and he didn't know it.

He though of Natalia, the sister who had always cared for him so much, so deeply that some nations saw it as weird and scary. He knew it was all out of love. He knew she only wanted what was best for him, she didn't want for him to get hurt, ever, by anyone. She wanted to be the one to make sure of that. But now he had gone and hurt her, one of the two people on this planet who didn't want to see him hurt - he had gone and destroyed her, them both. She would be here, her eyes burning with rage, her long hair floating along with her skirt in the burning wind, looking him in the eyes as she threatened him with a knife, cursing him out for hurting everyone so much, but in the end, she would end up apologising and hugging him close and telling him she would never hurt him, telling him that she was scared and hurt, and he would tell her he was sorry and it would be alright. But he didn't know, he could only guess - he had killed her, too.

He thought of Yao, whom he had had a long standing friendship with, an alliance, how they had both fought together in the east, how they had found refuge in each other, their ideals and their beliefs when it felt like the rest of the world was against them. How they had agreed that they would stick together against Alfred, and how silly that all now seemed - how they should not have been thinking of ways to be against each other, but stand together. He thought of all the Eastern European countries, of Elizaveta, of Vladimir, of Raivis, Toris and Eduard, of Felix, of all those he had taken under his control against their will, whom he should have thought of as more than merely a buffer-zone, something he could sacrifice for his own safety. He thought of Tino, his small neighbour, who had stood up to him thrice, almost invading him once, who had resisted everything he had shot at him, who had never bent to Ivan's will. He thought of Lien, whom he had helped against Alfred's efforts to fight her, and who had resisted him. He thought of every nation he had hurt. And he thought of the nations he had now destroyed.

And he thought of Alfred. Young, stupid, loud and obnoxious Alfred. The youngest nation to ever gain the status of superpower, who had amazed him and everyone else. Who now faced incomparable death, destruction, hurt, and all the blood he had on his hands. Alfred, and how he reminded him of himself. How Alfred would probably be wanting to help, but knowing nothing could be done. Their silly fights had gone too far, their paranoia and insanity having momentarily taken over, the push of that button a reflex, an accident. And he was sorry, sorry for the world, for Alfred, and he knew the other forgave him, more than could be said of everyone else.

And now, look what we've done.

He could only think of everyone else but himself. His people, how they had died - painless or painful? Burnt, irradiated, or in some freak accident? Crushed by the enormous wave, bleeding to death? Stabbed by something? Shot by someone desperate? Had the land been quickly destroyed? How much damage had been immediately caused? Judging from their mutilated and unrecognisable and burnt and bleeding and injured and agonisingly painful bodies, there was very little left to be called a country anymore. Something that used to be a country. Something that once was a superpower. Something that now was dead land. Useless. Abandoned. Killed. The United States of America was in shattered. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics was broken. He was dying - both were. Their strength was quickly waning, fleeting away, most of it having been blown away at the impact of the bombs. They could feel thousands of lost souls that still remained, that still fought, but they knew they could feel less and less, they knew they were fading away.

Oh, how I - we - will be remembered.

The two lands would soon be forgotten for everything they used to be, remembered only as the bringers of the end of the world, the apocalypse, doom, what everyone feared but none believed, what everyone wanted to avoid but what happened, what all of them were told was all a sham and a lie, not a real threat, that turned out to be very real, very present and very possible. They were the two who had ended the world by extending an arm, and hand, a finger, turning a key, pressing down. Who was it that had first seen the missiles? Was it a false alarm? Or some sort of accidental mutual malfunction and press of the button, just in case? Had one of them accidentally pressed it? Or were they given the order to from their bosses? Neither remembered, and it really would not matter in the future. They would go down in history as the former countries of the USA and the USSR, the two most powerful countries of the world who decided to destroy it. A balance of power never worked, never had and never would, but now it had gone just too far. Instead of it being two children having divided the sandbox in half, it was two adult men who had divided the world in half.

Isn't this ironic? How this mess started with war and ended with war?

It seemed that people were never able to solve any problem by themselves by polite and civil means. Blood had to be spilt, people killed, families torn apart and nations destroyed. And though it was the two nations who had pushed the buttons, who had given the orders and agreed to the action in the panic and fear that had taken them over in the five seconds they had had time to answer the messages they had received, in the end, it was the people who had started the hostility, who had gathered a deep hatred for the others, who had let it spill over, who had tipped the glass and shaken the balance, who had pressured governments to act, and the nation shad acted as they thought would be best for their people.

Humanity just seems to end itself every time it rebuilds itself.

He felt his last breaths weakening, his strength waning, he fell to his knees, not having enough to support himself anymore. His people were soon at peace. His vision was blurring and blackening. He had killed the world, but maybe at the same time he had made things easier - there was no more threat. They were liberated. The two had fallen together, yet apart, and now they had left space for someone worthy. Someone who wouldn't kill and destroy. Someone who wouldn't hurt them all.

Although, who is there left to hurt anymore?

Run away, run away
This is our last, this is our last goodbye.

A/N: the title of this story is the title of a song, and the lyrics are from a song called "Cold War Transmissions". The "99 Luftballons" song is about how 99 red children's balloons are released into the air, and are mistaken for UFOs. Planes are sent to see what they are, and upon discovering their true nature, to put on a show, they are shot down. The display of force worries nations and war ministers on each side try to get the power for themselves, resulting in a 99-year war without a victor, caused by the simple flight of balloons. This fic was about a relatively quick-fought war, that started from a matter neither side remembers even now, and results in the loss of both sides in the idea of Mutual Assured Destruction (the US policy). The lyrics are basically the first and the last lines (omit the chorus) from the song. I won't explain why this, though. And my use of pronouns can be seen as strange, but I chose it so that when they think as one it's "he" and when they are more separate, it's "they". Just explaining a bit of the stuff behind this, is all.