I am blaming my government and politics class on this entirely. We're studying Iran right now, and legend has it that during the Islamic Revolution, some American hostages were smuggled out of the American Embassy in Canada Post bags. The image of Matthew dragging Alfred around in a post bag would not leave my mind. Here it is in all its mutated glory.

This so counts as studying for my exam tomorrow.

~X~

America did not like teenagers. They were eternal problems. Besides the fact that they consumed too much, stayed out too late, broke stuff, and seemed to regenerate indefinitely, there was also the fact that nobody could get passionate like teenagers could. Who had been the ones in the self-dyed shirts raging against his most disastrous wars a mere four years ago? Teenagers.

And who were the ones clawing at the gates of his embassy like rabid weasels? Teenagers. Iranian teenagers.

"Why the hell am I even HERE?" he asked despairingly. It was hot. It was dangerous. It was dusty. The country was in the grip of raging...angry people. And his host nation who was supposed to be taking care of him was off in some corner of some palace having an extended identity crisis.

Oh right. That's why he was sitting in this uncomfortable chair, in this desert-dry and underdecorated office. There was oil.

America backed away from the window and sat down in a chair, head in his hands. He'd seen some doctors, but it really had become an addiction. Why hadn't he listened to England all those years ago…? What was it he had said….?

"Alfred!" he'd said hysterically, with his arm wrapped slightly drunkenly around a new colony and his uniform in such tatters it might as well have been confetti, "You know what is a really, really REALLY funny thing to go to war over? Drugs!"

"…Is that what you did?" America had asked flatly, staring blank-eyed at the poppy fields behind him and England's spasmodically giggling face.

"Yes!" England chirruped brightly. "And I have a new colony. Isn't he cuuuuuuuuuuuuute?"

Sickened slightly by England's paternal fussing, America had backed away and then set off at a sprint, back over the poppy fields.

"WELL YEAH, RUN AWAY!" England had roared after him "I DON'T NEED YOU ANYMORE, I HAVE OPIUM, HONG KONG, AND TEA AND THAT IS ALL I WILL EVER NEED!"

Wild laughter echoed over the fields as America retreated for the sake of his sanity, before England could break down and start sobbing and raging again over 1776 and all those boxes of tea at the bottom of the ocean.

Huh. Well maybe that was a little irrelevant, but England had warned him – when he was a little more sober – that needing something another country had would always get you into trouble.

"Um," said a quiet voice from beneath him, "Are you going to get off of me?"

America yelped and leaped out of what he had presumed was the chair, which let out a breath and stood up. He blinked and let his eyes readjust. In front of him was a mussed and grumpy nation, readjusting his glasses and summoning a look of haughty French disdain. America cringed as his younger brother folded his arms and looked at him, rather petulantly, wordlessly demanding explanation.

"Sorry, Mattie."

There was a blunt, tense pause, and then Canada faltered. "It's alright, it was my fault!" the other country said brightly, all traces of resentment gone.

I am such a goddamned doormat. Canada thought, and continued to internally complain in angry French about his uselessness and his willingness to follow Alfred into stupidly dangerous situations. He had been visiting the American embassy out of concern for his brother. Not too much of a bother, as his own embassy was mere blocks away, but still enough to make him resent being ignored. And then sat on.

"So…um…" America said awkwardly, "Bad time for a Middle Eastern vacation?"

Canada nodded in agreement. "Legendary bad time."

The voices of protesters in some very scathing-sounding languages rose up and beat against the window. Canada and America crossed to it automatically, and looked down at the crowd of teenagers – goddamned young adults – banging at the gates. Guards tried to talk them out of it, but they were promptly trampled by the protestors. The gates gave, and a swarm of people streamed into the embassy, coming to a stop again at the door to the building – directly under Canada and America.

"So this sucks," America said lightly, crossing his arms.

Canada sighed, irritated. "Yes. Yes it does." When America didn't pick up on his sarcasm right away, he snapped, worry manifesting as anger. "Damn it, Alfred!" Canada barked, and the other country paid attention, "Stop being so cavalier! They'll break through the door any minute and we've got to get out of here before they do."

"I don't get it, though!" America replied shrilly. "Why are they so mad at me? What did I do?"

Canada looked at him coldly. "Mon dieu, but you can be stupid sometimes. Do you remember saying that Iran was 'not in a pre-revolutionary state'?"

"Yeah," America said.

"Evidently your research was a bit off."

America frowned and looked out the window again. Impassioned, heated, angry faces looked up at him, crying out for revolution.

"Oh."

"Yeah. I'm guessing they're really mad because they think you're on the Shah's side."

America started to flail a bit, like he always did when he was distressed. "But I'm not on anyone's side!"

"That's why the Shah is mad too." Canada explained, growing more and more impatient. "Not like he's in any position to help you anyways. Which is why I have to get you out of here."

They had come full circle. America lowered his arms and sank into the chair. Canada was used to having to explain things to him twice before he agreed to them. Often he'd go off on some irrelevant tangent and he'd have to lead him back on track.

"But won't they get mad at you, too?"

Canada snorted. "That would mean they'd have to remember that I exist. That's tough enough for you sometimes."

America ignored the jibe and started to flail again. "Well do you have a plan?" he asked. "Right now I'm thinking decoy tactics – you'll be the decoy, of course – and then I'll run in, and-"

He was silenced by a quick and violent slap to the face.

"Thank you," he said weakly, sinking lower into his seat. Something heavy and floppy landed on his lap, and he looked down. It was a large canvas sack, with an unfamiliar logo on it and the words CANADA POST.

"Now is not the time to be answering your copious amounts of fan mail," America said dryly.

"The bag's empty," Canada replied tersely. "That's the idea. For today, you're my fanmail."

America looked to his younger brother and to the bag, and then back and forth a few times until his neck started to burn. "You've got to be kidding me," he said finally.

Canada rolled his eyes, and picked up the bag, loosening the string. "You're getting in the bag or you're getting assaulted by half the population of Iran." He held it up threateningly and shook it. America pushed it away, trying to put claustrophobia and death by suffocation from his mind.

"Not getting in the bag."

Canada sighed. "It's no choice. Please get in the bag?"

Folding his arms, America countered, "Not. Getting. In. The. Bag."

"Get in the bag!" Canada snapped, hoping to take him by surprise.

"Not!"

"In!"

"No!"

"Bag!"

"NEVER!"

America leaped up onto the desk to escape the other country, who'd been chasing him relentlessly around the room. At that exact moment, the door flew open, and the two last people they'd ever expected to see came barreling into the room.

"You two scared me!" America roared, jumping nearly high enough to collide with the ceiling and coming down heavily on some documents, scattering them to the floor. "I thought you were-"

Canada blinked, holding the post bag limply in one hand. "Russia? England?"

Indeed, there they were – the larger country in a full winter coat and scarf despite being in a desert, and the smaller in his normal clothes but with a weird rag tied over his head. They whirled around in tandem and slammed the door behind them, panting and gasping in equal terror and exertion. America continued shrilly.

"What the hell are you two doing here?" he spat, looking pointedly at Russia.

"Running away!" England said instantly, red-faced and supporting himself, hands on his knees. "It's a madhouse out there!"

Russia was breathing heavily, but his eyes were fixed on the Canada Post bag. "What exactly has been going on in here?"

Canada heaved an angry breath. "Well-"

"We're trying to escape," America interrupted, "but Canada is trying to kill me and stuff my body in a mailbag."

The room was caught in a moment of silent disbelief. It was Russia who broke the confused stillness first, crossing over to the desk where America stood and looking condescendingly up at him. Then moving so fast America couldn't see him strike, he pushed the country at the knees and sent him flying headfirst into Canada's open arms. Canada caught his brother expertly in the bag and tied it shut at the top.

"Allow me to help," Russia said politely, with a touch of venom.

"Good catch," England said dryly, locking the door.

"I invented basketball, you know," Canada replied proudly. Russia let out a barking laugh.

"Sure," England said sweetly, and then looked expectantly at the mailbag. "Did we leave him any air?"

Canada and Russia both looked at the bag.

"I TOLD YOU I WOULDN'T GET IN THE FUCKING BAG!" the bag roared. It squirmed like a living thing, and Russia kicked it, face deadpan. "OW! If that was Russia, I'm nuking you when I get out!"

There was a pause.

"Also I'm nuking you if it was England!"

Another pause.

"But if that was Canada I'll just invade you and take all your land."

Another sharp kick was delivered to the bag, this time from a different angle.

"Tried that one already, Alfred. Don't make me burn your house down again!" Canada hissed. He then looked meaningfully towards Russia and England.

"Erm, I hate to, uh, spring this on you…but would you two mind getting in the bags as well? I'm pretty sure they're not too happy with you being here either."

"Sure!" Russia said brightly, picking up one of the post bags and squirming into it like it was a cocoon. His head poked happily out of the top. Looking up expectantly at Canada and England, he chirped, "what do I do now?"

There was a moment of shocked, awkward silence.

"Well," England said cautiously, "I suppose Canada and I will have to carry you both out of here."

Canada looked sharply towards England. "But you can't go out there like that! They'll catch you."

England rolled his eyes. "But you can't carry all three of us. I'll carry America and you can carry Russia. I'll keep this on and no one will recognize me!"

Canada looked doubtfully at the rag on England's head. "What is that thing, anyways?"

A smug look appeared on England's face. "Kaffiyeh. From Lawrence of Arabia."

Canada stared.

England let out a strangled, angry cry. "Ugh! Go educate yourself sometime. Kids."

Now completely confused, Canada sighed and went over to where Russia's head was emerging from a post bag. "You'll have to get all the way in," Canada pointed out, readjusting the ties, "you're supposed to be mail."

"Oh! Da." Russia said, bending down and allowing Canada to shut the flap over his head. There was a moment of readjustment before Russia's muffled voice emerged, "I'm ready!"

England appeared to be circling the other post bag, looking at the right way to approach it without hurting himself. It had transformed into a thrashing mass of restrained American, ranting and raving at the top of his lungs.

"-violating my constitutional rights to breathe oxygen!" he was screeching, "and Russia has now legally attacked me which means he's started a war! And also this really hurts. I'm upside down, I've lost Texas and my neck is bending in uncomfortable ways and LET ME OUT OR I WILL END YOU ALL."

England circled once more and positioned himself carefully behind the bag which was now trying to hop away. He took a moment to breathe and centre himself and then launched a flying tackle at his cargo, pinning it to the ground.

"What's going on?" Russia said.

"America and England are having a talk," Canada replied patiently.

"Oh, that's good."

It took a few more seconds for England to wrestle the bag into submission, but he finally slung it over his shoulder and stood, shakily.

"Just let me out! Oh, I know! I'll wear England's stupid rag thing and I'll carry him in the bag. That would be far more heroic…"

"America," England snapped, patience finally at an end, "Shut up or I'm turning you over to the Iranians. We're going to leave now and so help me you will be quiet about it."

The bag fell silent. England nodded and walked towards the door, but was interrupted by a violent crash. He whirled around, to see Canada squashed underneath his own load, Russia's now slightly mussed head peeking out the top.

"What happened?" he asked, worried, and looked down at Canada beneath him. "Oh!"

The Canadian wormed his way out, shoved Russia's head back in the bag and slung it over his shoulder, staggering a little under the impressive weight. Shakily regaining his balance, he looked to England.

"I'm good," he said uncertainly.

"Let's get out of here before we all die of shame then, shall we?" England replied brightly, readjusting his kaffiyeh and leading the mail and mailman party out into the hall.

It was oddly quiet. Downstairs, there was a faint roar of angry students and a gentle, constant thud of their fists beating the doors in unison, but that was all. The actual hallway was completely deserted. Evidently most of the others had evacuated.

"Which way?" he asked the bag. Canada came up beside him. When there was no response, England nudged America through the fabric and asked again. Silence.

Canada cried as he was nearly slung off balance when Russia kicked out hard and knocked America swinging.

"OW!" America snapped, lunging back but failing miserably. "I thought you didn't want me to talk!"

"There's no one here," England whispered. "Just tell us left or right."

There was a moment of moping silence before a voice emerged. "Go right. Stairs'll take you to the side entrance."

England put on his game face and adjusted his complaining load. Canada mimicked him and they started off down the hallway, checking over their shoulders habitually as they went.

"By the way," America quipped, jostled uncomfortably in his sack, "don't kick me!"

England yelped and twirled as the mail bag swung widely around, colliding with Canada's and sending him reeling into the wall like a billiard ball. He used the post bag to cushion himself, eliciting a squeak from Russia, who pushed off reflexively and sent Canada careening into the Englishman.

"Don't provoke me, capitalist pig!" Canada's post bag roared.

"Oh no," Canada whimpered.

"You started it, commie!"

"Run!" England yelped.

Canada complied and they sprinted down the hallway, their respective packages raging an ongoing blind kicking war. They would connect and send England and Canada ricocheting in different directions, yelps of protest inaudible over the angry battle cries of the two countries in their respective bags. Picking themselves up in blind panic the two postmen continued towards the end of the hall.

"The stairs!" Canada cried breathlessly, forcing through the door at the end of the hall with one shoulder. The act set him off balance, and he screeched precariously to a halt at the top stair. He let out a sigh of relief, and then drew in a sharp breath when he heard England approach from behind…and stop mere inches behind him.

But the stop set America's bag in a wild circle and swatted Canada down the stairs. England grabbed his collar to stop him and was dragged along, tumbling in a confused mussing of canvas and country until the four of them collapsed in a heap on the landing.

England swore uproariously. Sandwiched in between America and Russia, he was not exactly comfortable. Worming his way out and readjusting his head rag, he shouted, "Okay! So this is really not fucking working!"

America's head popped out of the bag. "It was Russia's fault! He kicked me!" he whimpered petulantly.

Russia followed his lead, trying to shove off the American who had landed crosswise over him. "You were being childish!"

England rolled his eyes and ignored their constant banter, feeling oddly like he was forgetting something. Then, pushing himself up off the wooden stairs he cried, "Canada! Are you alive under there?"

A tiny whimper emerged from under the sacks. America rolled obediently down the stairs while Russia somehow managed to defy physics and roll up. Underneath was a slightly flatter Canadian, glasses askew, moaning and whimpering in pain. The two bagged countries and the irked, rag-adorned Englishman looked down at him with horror.

"I'm okay," he squeaked.

They all breathed a sigh of relief, then glared at each other in various stages of rage.

"Look, don't fight!" Canada interrupted. "We need to stop arguing and get out of here! Get back in the bags!"

The statement was issued not a moment too soon. In the silence following Canada's order, a faint thunder of feet was heard. The four countries looked up in suspended horror, then met each other's eyes as they realized the rumbling noise was getting louder.

"Run!" England yelled, stuffing America's head bodily back in the bag and scrambling down the stairs. Canada followed with Russia slung over his shoulder. Above them, the door burst open, and a dozen students yelled excitedly and pursued them.

England didn't have time to check behind him. He merely fled down and down, three at a time, praying that Canada was following. His legs and heart burned, and his shoulders cried and protested at the weight of America. Two floors, now, he thought, sprinting across a landing and down another flight. Were the voices louder, closer? They seemed to swirl around the stairwell. But now there was only one flight, and an open door-

He ran out, feet thumping up little clouds of beige dust and eyes tearing in the sunshine. Adjusting to the glare through the window of his headgear, he dashed around the corner and pressed himself into an alcove in the building. Canada followed him, snuggling into the little back alley and breathing heavily.

"Okay," the younger country hissed, hoisting Russia up onto his shoulders. "Now what do we do?"

England peeked out from behind the alcove, scanning the courtyard. The pursuing students were just coming out from the door, and splitting up to hunt for their American quarry.

"We have to get out without them seeing us," he said like it wasn't obvious. "But they've got us pretty well surrounded. The gate's just behind them…damn it!"

Canada breathed out slowly. "Okay. Follow my lead."

"What?" England said sharply.

Without any further discourse, Canada jumped out into the sun. "Hey!" he yelled, one arm waving while the other kept a firm grip on the mail bag. "Come get me!"

Realizing that he still had the post bag with several hundred pounds of Russia in it, he hissed a hasty apology. "Sorry, Russia. I didn't mean to drag you into this."

With that, he ran in the opposite direction. England watched incredulously from the little alcove as the Canadian ran with all the strength and speed he could muster, toting Russia like he was feather-light and leading their pursuers away from the exit.

"I'll never understand you," his mail lamented angrily. Canada swallowed audibly and rounded the other corner of the building. He had a good start, but the weight was beginning to crush him and disorient him. His vision tunneled, his sweat poured, his foot caught on something –

And he hit the dusty concrete, blood instantly springing from his cheek where he collided with the earth. Clutching Russia's bag to him and loosening the ties intently, he prayed that he'd given England and his brother enough leeway to escape.

"Go!" Canada hissed into the bag, Russia's purple eyes glaring back up at him. "Get out while you can and run!"

Russia started unblinkingly. "I will not leave you on your own," he promised emotionlessly, then smiled as the revolutionaries closed in and the click of guns spiraled around their heads.

Meanwhile, England stared after the retreating backs of the same revolutionaries, still in minor disbelief. Then, utterly silently, he took the opportunity Canada had given and exited the embassy onto the deserted street, following the noise of the city until he came across and joined with a massive protest legion and lost himself in the crowd.

~X~

Wow, I totally wasn't expecting to end this with a cliffhanger. THIS MEANS MORE CHAPTERS.

Ugh, the madness. It was not expected. I don't know where I was going with this half the time, I just enjoy torturing hetalia countries. *psychotic laughter* and I hardly ever write so...bluntly. I'm far more prosey than this, usually.

OHRIGHT Historical stuff. Soooo the evacuation of the embassy was pretty disastrous and a lot of people ended up held hostage in the American Embassy for 444 days. Canada managed to save six of them in what was eventually called the "Canadian Caper" and involved the famous postal-bag smugglin'. eheheheh.

Lawrence of Arabia is a REALLEH GOOD British film from 1962, and Lawrence himself was a British liason during the Arab revolt in 1916-18. In the movie he wears a really awesome head scarf...and I wish I knew what it was called, but it's 11:30 and I'm too lazy to find out.

Canadian James Naismith invented basketball in 1891. Then we proceeded to suck at it :D heheh...sorry Canada.

Also we burned down the white house, but you should know this already. It was a while ago (like two hundred years), and we're over it now. 3

Opium wars...I couldn't help myself. Totally unrelated in almost every way.

Erm...oh yeah, Russia and England are there because they both occupied Iran for a while and then left just after World War Two...Also America's reason for previously quasi-supporting the Shah was that he wanted to limit Soviet influence in the region...England still also had interest in Iran's oil...so I was looking for two more characters and they seemed appropriate.

I think that's about it. Anyways, love will be given freely for all that read and any that review. Au revoir!