Hello there! I'm Yours The Author, but you'll notice I prefer The Author, or simply Author, but you may call me whatever appropriate name you desire. I've been wanting to write what I like to call the cult series for a really long time, and I'm finally doing it! I had originally wanted this to be a short, comedic one shot, as a contrast to what I hope is the more serious rest of the series. However, I have a bit of a fancy for detail and real storytelling, so it became multi-chapter. Hopefully, it'll be shorter by comparison, but I'll cross that bridge when I get there. You may notice traces of comedy in this chapter. I just hope you enjoy whatever this thing is.

Disclaimer:I do not own Hetalia, Hetaoni, or my sister or Moirail. I do own myself and Brittany Davis, not as a person, but as an OC.

TriggerWarning: Rated T for violence, moral pondering, and monster killing.

Chapter 1: Learning How to be Brave

It was an ordinary day for the world. Except it wasn't, because no matter what time period it may be, the world will never be entirely ordinary. But I don't have to tell you that.

So it was an ordinary day- for me, anyway. Dad was at work, Mom was helping her boss, and my siblings were all asleep. I was eating a bowl of cereal at the little less than holy hour of seven thirty. Sometimes trouble sleeping has its perks. I could get on the computer before anyone else that day. My cat purred at my feet and pawed at one of the long red hairs that had fallen off my brush earlier.

I pondered what exactly what I would do that day. No doubt reading Homestuck and various fanfictions were at the top of the list. I hoped halfheartedly that a particular Hetalia fan fiction I'd been reading had updated. All the while, various scenes, stories, and characters flashed around in my mind, never ceasing to surround me.

I glanced absently at the pile of mail on the kitchen table and noticed a white envelope with my name on it. Odd thing was, it wasn't my real name; it was my preferred fan fiction title. "The Author" was written on the flat side. No stamp, no address, not even mine. Had someone slipped it into the mailbox this morning?

I grabbed a nearby letter opener and opened the letter. Two pieces of paper came out. I had accidentally cut the top of a folded piece of paper off. Oops.

"Dear, 'The Author'," the bigger piece read. "My name is Brittany. We've never met. We will soon, but chances are we won't talk much after that. Then again, maybe we might. Who knows? It's all up to the whimsical thing we call fate, or whatever you prefer to believe in. Two things I need to write down here and now because it'll take forever to explain, even in person. One: Magic is real. It's how I determined who should receive these letters, including your friend, whom you call 'The Artist' and your older sister whom you call 'The Vet'. You will all meet up if you all agree to come. Second, and most importantly: Hetalia, specifically HetaOni, is real. It's all bloody real. This is where things get complicated. The ultimate reason you have this letter is because I need your help. The nations, as I'm sure you well know, are trapped in the mansion three hours from the World Meeting Place. They're suffering in there, and you can help—if you so wish, of course. Your friend and sister might have decided already to come, but I won't use that against you. I won't keep your loved ones hostage in exchange for assistance, who told you that?"

"Um," I said.

"I josh, of course. But I really do need all the help I can get. No, the cult needs all the help it can get. I can't expect you to follow the typed words of an unknown human, but I can hope that you will at least consider it for the sake of the nations, Italy Veneziano especially."

I set down the finished piece and stared out the window. It was a cloudy day, and the rotting wood porch was damp from last night's rain. I could hear splashing from a few rooms away, meaning the turtles had felt the need for exercise. I closed my blue eyes and began to ponder with as much focus as I could muster.

Hetalia is real? I thought, and magic is real as well?

Well, it could explain how this letter had appeared in the mail, I thought back.

Come now, couldn't there be a more logical explanation?

But we've never given out our address to anyone on the internet, and Arty isn't the type to play a prank.

Say, who is the Brittany person anyway? Who does she think she is, claiming Hetalia is real? That sort of thing only happens in fanfictions, and usually the not particularly spectacular kind.

But is it right of us to judge her? She sounds like she knows what she's doing, perhaps she's telling the truth?

What are the chances of that happening?

What are the chances of getting a letter like this in real life?

Fair point.

Boku Hetalia~

Shoosh your mouth, we're trying to think of important things.

You can't fight the Homestuck!

"Argh!" I smacked my forehead, loudly enough to make my cat run away with a poof in her tail. "Can never gosh darned focus, even when it counts!" I rubbed my aching ear tubes. "Maybe I should talk out loud to focus better." I wasn't ADD or ADHD, as far as I knew; I just was always circled by thoughts, often to the point of feeling sleepy in the real world, in a dream state.

I reread the paper. "I guess it would be more accurate to say that HetaOni is real… But how? It's a fan game, baseless head-cannon that just happens to be really cool and epic and sad. I suppose next they'll tell me that 2p characters are real. They don't have canon appearances or personalities, but hey, anything goes here in Wonderland!" I crossed my legs and rested my chin on my hands. "Suppose it is all real, though. Why me? There are so many other stronger, faster, smarter Hetalia fans than me. I'm just a poet trying to be an author. If it's HetaOni we're talking about, they'll probably want me to fight or something. I'd like to see an actually good story like that where there's character development and not just a rage management fest. But, uh, that is not the important thing. I wouldn't be good at fighting, and those monsters are near impossible to kill. Even if there were a thousand of us, we'd be screwed harder than a guy in a Cyberman invasion!" I stared at my pale hands. "And then there's the question of if this is right. It may be a monster, but it's a living thing. Can I bring myself to kill something? Soldiers and armies are psychologically trained for that sort of thing, but that's not who I am!" I stopped talking. My mouth was dry from being out of practice.

I'm sure we'd all like to think that we'd be ready to kill to save a loved one, but what would we do in reality can be completely different. The fight or flight response kicks in, and we either run away or die fighting. And if we survive, what happens to us? We change, that's what. And while a little change can be good, it just makes people expect you to do things that make you uncomfortable until you go numb from repetition.

Some thoughts began to grow rowdy and push at my think pan, but I needed to focus.

Are you a coward? I thought.

More than likely, I replied.

Italy was a coward to, right? But then he knew he had to keep trying in order to save his friends, even if it meant losing them over and over again. Where is he now?

Miserable, I thought, eternally suffering.

Bad example. Let's try again. Vet and Arty might already be there, right?

Supposedly.

What do you think they'll think of you if you don't come? They'll think less of you.

I rubbed my chin feverishly. They aren't like that. And I'd love them anyway.

But what if they die? What if you were the only one who could save them? Could you live with yourself?

I'd never know—

Exactly!

I clenched my teeth and shut my eyes tight. Boy my brain was getting some exercise that day.

This is all a bunch of what ifs!

What ifs can be true.

I stared at my hands and shivered. I could die.

I focused on the silence. The house didn't breath, and neither did I.

I could run away and get someone killed. I could mess up a lot of things.

Could you… or would you?

I stared at the remaining paper. It was smaller, and turned so I couldn't read it.

The more comforting things I'd been thinking of pushed at the core of my brain. My frontal lobe throbbed as if something was biting it. It was inviting, if not completely comfortable. Should I just stay in my comfort zone?

Do I even have a comfort zone?

Yes, you do. It's called being lazy. Now read the rest of the darned letter.

I'm not that lazy…

Prove it.

I picked up the letter and continued reading.

"If you would like to join what I've tentatively called The Cult of Veneziano, simply remove this section of the letter and sign your name, or pseudonym, if you prefer."

I had cut off the part with the letter opener. Oops, I thought again.

Well that was easy.

Now hold on, I haven't signed yet—

"If you cut off this part of the letter but then get cold feet, the rest of this letter is to tell you, 'No, sorry, no cold feet allowed, you're walking on coals. You will automatically be sent to our location. Sucks to be you.'"

"Hey!" I said aloud.

Brittany's right. It kind of sucks to be us.

"Pretty sure… that's not… fair!" I felt tense and panicky. I breathed heavily, and my chest felt strange.

I dropped the letter, and stared at the friendly, largely printed letters, "Don't Panic! Sincerely, Brittany Davis, Temporary Head of The Cult of Veneziano."

The feeling that started in my chest spread slowly to my arms and legs. It wasn't pain, as I first worried it was, but rather the warm, glowing feeling one feels when meditating. It calmed me down, though not by much. As the feeling draped over my eyes like a cotton blanket, I felt as if I was falling, and hummed a quiet goodbye to the relative comfort I had known. Looking back on it now, it seems like the least sucky thing that happened to me, though it hasn't made me appreciate the wake up any more. I guess I feel a bit differently now, but I still stand by my previous not specifically written statement: I really don't like change.

And the first chapter comes to a close! Huzzah!

I wrote this story many times, but this is the version I think best begins the series. Perhaps a bit heavy handed for a first chapter, but I think it's fairly well done.

I don't usually have conversations like this in my mind. I usually speak them aloud, and not for very long. Most of the time, the underlined thoughts win my attention. But I can still do my exams and focus (for the most part) on assignments! So, that counts, I guess.

Who is this Brittany Davis? Why did she choose The Author, of all people? Is she actually who she says she is? Of course she is. Otherwise, this would be a very different story. But for the answers to the other two questions, you'll have to wait until next time!

Please leave me a review. I need critique as a way to know where to go next. If you're not too busy, try reading my profile and my other story. As of writing this, I have one story up. So tell me what you think, keep my title in the dark recesses of your mind where none dare enter without a parachute, and have a day. Good or bad, it's up to you. Until then!