Relative Insanity
Summery: As England forges his way through Europe he leaves a trail of unrest in his wake. Are You Crazy side stories.
Chapter 1: Prussia
Prussia hated the capital. Hated it was a burning passion. The rotten core of a rotten empire. He glowered at the overly ornate stone structures from his car window. No modesty, no humility, just great towers, stretching into the sky. It got worse the closer to the heart you got.
He massaged his head in an attempt to stave off the headache he always seemed to develop when he stayed in Italy. Simply crossing the borders was a literal pain. An exercise that never failed to suck out his life and energy, leaving him faint and weakened. How of the others could stand it for any length of time was beyond him. He watched as the familiar Palazzo del Quirinale, current residence of the Emperor and Italy's central command, came into view. All he wanted to do was get in, give Italy his report and get out.
Hopefully, the whole ordeal would be over quick, giving him time to swing by Germany before he turned back East. Not that his brother would be in Germany to greet him. He rarely saw his brother leave Italy's side. However, he would still like to visit his home-ish land before he returned east to continue directing skirmishes in the name of the Italian-Germanic Empire.
It was sad he almost preferred his time away from Germany and staying in regions where Italy's power was more diminished. With most of North Africa now under their control he was focusing on expanding the Empire's influence past Turkey and further into the Middle East. It wasn't quite a war, being more of a series of small/medium conflicts of interests. With Russia and China –and Britain despite a treaty saying otherwise-all sticking their noses into the region it got really messy at times. Occasionally the area erupted into an unpredictable shitstorm. But, most of the time- with the locals digging in deep and interference from before mentioned parties- the area was the subject of an uneasy stalemate. It was more a war of attrition than anything else. A dysfunctional, honorless, war. No place for a knight, not that he could claim that title anymore, no place for any sane person really.
If he were more invested he would say the situation was frustrating.
Prussia frowned at the suited man who opened the car door for him, pulling his long cloak across his body. The man was giving him a surprised look. The knee length white overcoat, embroidered with the Teutonic Knighthood's coat of arms, was not the subtlest clothing choice thus garnered attention. He leveled a stare at the man, forcing him to look away. Lucky, being a personification, gave him a certain amount of influence, letting him avoid any unnecessary confrontations.
He quickly stalked up the steps leading to unnecessarily elongated white building. He snapped irritably at the guards who rushed out to intercept him. Dressed in standard kevlar riot gear they were quick to aim their fancy new submachine guns his way. Give the Capital some credit they had all the latest military tech.
He did not bother gracing the guards with any explanation, pushing past and shoving his credentials into their hands as he went. He strolled through the palace, foot steps assured and even. He knew where Italy was, his mere presence was a beacon of power, untampered and unchecked. So he made all the right turns in all the right places, taking the direct root until he came to the correct door. He reached for the handle intent on simply entering.
"I wouldn't go in there,"
Prussia tensed, moving his hand from the doorknob to rest on the hilt of his sword. He tilted his head to the side, spying Spain leaning against a doorframe donning its usual expressionist mask. He was dressed in well-fitted designer suit coloured an assortment of bight yellows and purples. One of Romano's purchases no doubt. The fact that he had not immediately sensed the other personification was a testament to how little power and influence he held in the Capital. He may as well be a human for all it was worth.
He scowled, taking a step back, "Why the fuck not,"
"Italy's in a bad mood," Spain said simply.
Prussia glowered at Spain then glowered at the door. Fucking fantastic. What the hell had gone wrong now?
"Unless you have good news…I wouldn't go in there," Spain reiterated, expression denoting complete boredom.
As he had just returned from the clusterfuck that was the Middle-East it did not take a genius to conclude that he had no good news. He crossed his arms.
Perhaps he should hole up somewhere in the city and give his report later. It was never a good idea to catch Italy on a bad day. On the other hand, who knew how long Italy's bad mood would last, and he really did not want to hang around. Best to get it over with as soon as possible.
He hesitated.
But…if Spain was out here then Romano was probably inside as well. Both Italian brothers in the same room? That was something he would rather avoid.
"Your brother is in the south wing," Spain interrupted his internal debate.
He startled slightly. What? His brother? He narrowed his eyes. That was an awfully odd thing to mention. What was Spain's angle?
"Mind your own god dam business," he retorted.
Prussia spun around, coat flaring behind him, and stalked back down the hall.
Fucking Spain.
Despite his suspicions he headed towards the south wing. If his bother was there then he was not shadowing Italy, meaning they might be able to have an actual conversation for once. Not very likely. But it was possible.
As he went he rubbed the coppery surface of his mechanical left arm, sparing a second to watch the panels shift and grind against each other. Their conversations never seamed to end well these days. He released a breath. Hopefully, with Italy absent, his brother would be more open. Italy just seamed to bring out the worse in Germany.
It took little brainpower to figure out that Germany was in the Prep-room. A large room, containing a huge meeting table and gallery, it was primarily used for war conferences.
He easily pushed the door open, immediately spying the other alone at the table.
His brother sat hunched over, scanning the designs and plans for that fancy new surveillance system he had been hearing so much about. A line of smoke wafted to the ceiling from his lips.
"Lutz," he greeted.
The other exhaled a cloud of smoke, leaning back to meet his gaze. Cold purple eyes met his red ones.
"Bruder,"
There was a loooong silence.
"So dark in here. How to you see," he broke whatever tension had begun to build, taking a step into the room. Causally, he strolled forward.
"How is the East Campaign," his brother responded professionally and with little emotion. He rolled his eyes. Of course Germany would rather hear about his report then about more important personal mattes. Not even a proper greeting.
"Hallo you to," he huffed.
At Germany's displease expression he continued, "Oh, you know, the Campaign is frustrating and pointiness."
He shrugged, adjusting his coat and sword so he could sit comfortably in the chair opposite his brother.
"Nothing new's happened," he lent forward to read the nearest set of blueprints.
Germany frowned at the lack of information.
"You mean there has been little progress from your last visit,"
Prussia did not like the faint tone of accusation present.
"Takes money and resources to push for more territory," he intoned, as he got sucked into elaborating, "and to keep occupied areas rebel free. Resources I don't have access to."
"That has never been a problem before," Germany gathered the documents so they were out of view. He rubbed his forehead. This was not the conversation he wanted to have.
"Look, I admit, on the ground there are some competent people but you should see some of the bullshit orders coming from central."
If they were going to be discussing military stuff then he might as well make his opinion known. At least with his brother he did not have to be so careful with his wording.
"I don't know what Italy's playing at with this long term shit but it certainly isn't doing our side any good,"
"Battles are not won through simple brute force anymore," Germany commented.
"I know that," he bit. Just because he preferred to dress the part of a knight did not mean that his head was stuck in the Stone Age.
Germany eyed him, "I will overview the command staff."
Which was as good an admission as any. He rolled his eyes.
"Yeah. You do that," he leant back, "So, how have you been?"
"Well,"
It was like pulling teeth.
"Been home at all,"
"Whenever I am needed,"
He frowned. Even in his weakened state he could still feel his brothers signature. Only, every time he visited it seamed…less. He couldn't describe it but the signature was warping, becoming more and more like Italy's.
"When's the last time you spent time in Germany when not on business,"
"I go where I am needed."
Slowly, Germany took a puff of his cigarette, his eyes were now narrowed. There was a chill in his gaze.
"Not that it's doing any fucking good," he was unable to help himself snap, "It's supposed to be the Italian-Germanic empire not the Italian Empire but you'd never know because that psychotic… "
Years of battlefield experience allowed him to doge the incoming attack. It took him all one second to realize that his brother had attacked him.
"You overstep," Germany was now standing, looking at him with cold eyes.
Crap. He had momentarily forgotten that Germany did not tolerate any slight against Italy.
He pulled his sword in a fluid motion, bringing it up to intercept the next punch and forcing his brother to twist to the side to avoid getting his hand chopped off. Prussia quickly reversed his grip to follow in a move that would have sliced into his brother's shoulder had Germany not masterfully rolled under the blade.
Artfully, Prussia brought the sword into a one handed jab, which Germany blocked with the reinforced plating that ran down his arm. It was strong enough to stop low caliber bullets and was definitely strong enough to deflect sword strikes.
His brother slipped in closer, delivering a hash knee to Prussia's rib cage. He moved with the blow, falling backward and rolling upright into to block. Germany's heel met with the flat of his blade.
Prussia moved to a more defensive stance, fighting to keep Germany from getting close enough to land any hits. Though he had the advantage of reach, Germany was faster and stronger. The blow to his diagram ached.
The difference in strength was made doubly apparent when the force behind Germany's next strike caused his arm to buckle. There was a deep pain that told him that he had probably broken a bone. Fuck, he hated being week. As he had thought before; he might as well be human.
He grunted, lashing out with his leg and leaping back. In hand to hand combat Germany held the advantage, it being his specialty. His arm was broken and his mechanical hand did not have the precision of his flesh and blood one.
He backed off, raising his arms in a gesture of surrender, "Fuck. I didn't come here to fight. Italy's great, wonderful guy, a pile of roses."
He never wanted to fight.
"You overstep brother," Germany repeated.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," he continued backwards. Germany straightened, loosening up. He was subject to one last cold stare.
"I just worry is all," he tried, hoping to salvage the situation.
"It is unneeded. Everything will fine," Germany answered, picking up the cigarette he had discarded.
"Italy will see our country to greatness."
Germany sat back down. Prussia moved forward, righting the chair he had knocked over in the scuffle.
"Yeah. Sure…" he sighed.
The rest of their meeting continued without any further confrontation but if felt cold and forced. He did manage to wheedle out some personal information in between talks of military strategy and the Empire's new financial plan.
He left feeling resigned. Just another disastrous talk with his brother.
Germany's cold eyes followed him down the corridor. Sometimes he wondered why he still cared. It obviously did not do him any good. He winced, pocking at his flesh and blood arm.
He still remembered the day he had found Germany. Or rather, the day Germany had been thrust into his care. He was not one hundred per cent sure where he had come from. He had a working theory that after spending an unusual amount of time in one place, he had accidently splintered. Needless to say he was blindsided when a younger Fredrick II thrust the younger child at him, ordering him to 'do something about this.'
Honestly, his first thought had been to kill the kid. Two Personifications sharing the same place? That rarely ended well.
But, well, he had never wanted to settle down. His life was the battlefield, his knights, his personal code. He was the mighty Prussia. A knight. Unique in his lack of an official place to call 'home.' That had always been a source of pride.
He could tell right away that Germany was different. Whilst he detested it Germany liked staying in towns, integrating into city life, getting involved in politics. And, well, he could see the use in that. Some people-most humans-even his people, needed to settle down at some point. What better place then in one with a Personification, watching over them. Especially one that had evolved from himself. One that he could influence how he liked.
Somewhere along the way he had gotten attached. Perhaps, it was more to do with their strong cultural connections. He had taught Germany practically everything he knew.
At some point Germany became his own nation. And, instead of being threatened, he had been pound.
Of course, because his life was cursed, it had not stayed good. Perhaps it was his punishment was living such a wayward lifestyle.
When Germany had started forming an alliance with Italy he had been happy. Germany was young, surrounded on all side by enemies and the mighty Prussia was not quite what is use to be. He had heard the rumors of Italy being a rather unforgiving character. He had never had many dealings with Italy himself, keeping more to north Europe when he was not messing around with France. Maybe, if he had paid more attention he would have caught the changes earlier. If he a recognized that something was wrong he could have done something before the two embarked on the disaster of a war that later became World War 1.
Maybe. Maybe, Maybe.
Not much point in worrying about it now. Prussia pushed himself off the banister.
"You going to heal that,"
Spain once again stood in front of him, partly hidden by a doorway.
"Fuck off," he snapped as he walked past. What was Spain's deal today? Usually, when they did meet, he showed little interest in Prussia and his issues.
Spain followed him.
"That looks broken,"
"Don't you have Romeo suck up to," he retorted.
"He's with Italy," Spain responded idly, "That will heal faster if you set it,"
Prussia paused, turning to glower at Spain, blinking when he saw the other carrying a medical kit.
He huffed, "Make it quick," he held out his injured arm.
Several seconds of silence past. He observed Spain expertly pull supplies out of his kit.
"I saw Poland," Spain spoke, maintaing his mask of impassiveness.
He scowled suspiciously, watching Spain wrap his arm.
"Don't care."
"He's in the Central Correctional Facility,"
Again? He guest that's was happened what you clung to frivolous belief.
"So what. Guy's a retard," he snapped. He had never been a huge fan of Poland. Even after he had developed a brain and stopped throwing 'like' in front of every sentence he was still annoying.
"He want's to talk to France,"
Prussia scoffed, yanking his arm away, "Good for him."
He had had enough of this. He examined Spain's handy work. It was good enough until he got out of Italian territory and his regenerative abilities returned to their usable swiftness.
"Thanks," he said professionally. Credit where credit was due Spain was good at this medical stuff.
He gave a mock salute with his mechanical hand, and strolled away down the corridor. This time Spain did not follow.
For someone so uninvested, Spain had shown an awful lot of initiative in the past few hours. More than he had seen in a long time. At first he had thought is might be some lingering sense of camaraderie rearing its long forgotten head but perhaps it was something else.
After all it would be stupid to think that any of the other's still valued the old ways and the old codes like he did. But what could it be?
Italy and Romano both wandering around without their shadows.
Spain showing an uncharacteristic amount of interest.
Poland in hot water and wanting to speak with France.
He had been planning to spend some time in Germany before heading back out to the Middle-East but his brother had killed that desire. Why not nose around for a bit while waiting for Italy's mood to improve?
Of course, the entire thing wasn't any of his business. Which was a good enough reason not to care. He tapped a figure against the guardrail next to him. He would not delude himself into thinking that he was considering this out of charity. No, the only reason he was even considering pursuing the matter was a lingering sense of worth.
Something was going down. The question was: did he give enough shits to find out what?