Series: Condemned
Title: Book 1: Condemn the Free
Summary: The end of the world is coming, and it all started with the disappearance of the United States of America.
Pairings: FrUK, implied RusAme, OC/OC pairings.
Rating: T, may go up.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
August 22nd, 2000
Hello.
If you're listening to this, either I'm dead or you just stumbled on one of my best kept secrets—somehow. I don't know how, and I don't want to know.
Either way, you're going to know the truth.
If I'm dead, it means that the worst case scenario has come to pass, and you're going to need everything you can get to prepare. In the following message, I've included everything you need to know about the growing threat. If you just stumbled upon this and I'm alive, then…well…I suppose this is either a warning or simply a super-heroic tale of kick-ass!
Now, where should I start?
Let me think…I guess the beginning should work.
My name is Alfred F. Jones. I also am the soul—and by soul, I mean walking, talking, hamburger-chowing essence—of the United States of America.
And here is the story of the end of humanity.
2020
America strode down the hall, a small frown on his normally smiling face. He carefully straightened the cuffs on his uncomfortable, crisp suit and sighed.
There was only one way to describe the way America was feeling, and it wasn't a normal emotion for the usually carefree nation. It was troubled.
America was generally an optimist; one who always found the bright side of things. He smiled in the face of adversity and laughed in the midst of disparity. He managed to remain upbeat even when his economy was making him sick every other week and the House and Senate continued pulling him in two different directions. He put on a happy façade every time the other countries insulted him behind his back. He twisted every dark emotion and put it in a small, secluded corner in the back of his mind. There was positively nothing that could bring him down, even as he was slowly falling apart inside. And yet…he was troubled.
That was troubling, the feeling of being troubled. America decided that it was very unpleasant, the thought of having to worry more than he should. Sure, he worried over the economy, the thought that Russia or China might attack him, global warming, oil running out, and so, so many other things…but those could be ignored, when it came down to it, in the interest of a night out or a nap. However, he couldn't ignore this. After all, it's one thing when the legislative branch is being all pissy—that was an incontrovertible fact of existence for Alfred—but it's another when you're sure your boss is a psychopath.
Sure, he'd had some interesting presidents before (One simply had to ask him about Andrew Jackson, and even "Silent Cal" Coolidge had ridden a mechanical horse in his room for exercise) but nothing like this. The president had put up a sickly sweet façade (not unlike America's own), but not for the protection of others. He'd put it up for power, for the top spot. The man promised a brighter future, like so many others before him, and he urged his fellow citizens to focus on what would be, rather than what was. 'We will wash away the darkness of today,' the man had said, 'For a brighter tomorrow.' Through this, he'd convinced a lot of people. America himself would've been convinced had he been a normal human—but he wasn't. After three hundred years, America had learned to look through deception and see any human's true nature—now only other countries could fool his eyes. And his new president, he had to admit, was good, but he'd seen it. The evil malevolence behind the kindly figure; the wolf in sheep's clothing.
But what could he do?
He couldn't do anything, especially since the president had won by a landslide; he was that popular. America had practically no power in that respect, no matter how high up in the system he was. As much as he hated it, he couldn't stop that man from becoming president; that was what he'd fought for so long ago, freedom of speech, and he couldn't take it back now. What the people wanted, the people would get.
The guards nodded to him as he walked past, and he acknowledged them with a small wave of the hand. He recognized most of them. However, he could pick out a few new recruits—he didn't know their faces and they stopped him as he walked by.
"Sir, this is a high clearance area. We'll escort you outside now."
America sent him a glare and slipped his hand into his pocket, searching for his ID. Once he found his wallet, he flipped it open and shoved the ID into the newbie's face.
"You see this?" he snarled, not in the mood to deal with some impertinent rookie. "My name is Alfred Fucking Jones, and I have higher clearance than you ever will."
"Alfred! No tormenting the new guards!"
He turned and saw a slight woman carrying a tray of tea walking toward him, looking at him with an admonishing, somewhat drained expression. It was Lucille, one of the maids. She'd been there for almost two years; she was a pretty girl, with bright brown eyes and black hair. Though she didn't know that Alfred was America, she did know that he was something special; after all, Alfred had come to the office almost twice a month for as long as she could remember.
America dropped his hand and let out a soft growl before stuffing the ID and wallet back into his pocket. He turned to fully face the woman. "Fine, fine." Then, he turned to the guard (who was looking a little terrified) and said, "You're lucky she was there to protect you, buddy."
Yes, being troubled was troubling; it bothered him and then he would take it out on everyone else. That poor guard hadn't deserved his anger—after all, he was just doing his job, and BAM! Here comes some fat-ass biting his head off! Oops. Ah, well.
"You're here to see Mr. President?" Lucille asked, ushering America away from the trembling guard. "Come on; I'm bringing some tea to him anyway."
America nodded, still distracted. "Yeah, okay."
They walked in silence, and no one else bothered them. Perhaps it was because of America's intimidating aura. Perhaps it was because of the figure of the maid walking next to him. Or perhaps it was because there were no more newbies in their path. In any case, they were left completely alone.
They were silent as they walked, which left America to his thoughts again. How was he going to treat this president? Would he call him out on his farce or would he let the president be? Would he attempt to mess with the president's decisions, or would he trust the people's judgment and leave them alone? What if the president had bad intentions for his country—what would he do then? He had to go about this carefully, or things could get messy. This worried him even more; he never did things carefully (ask England or Canada), so this problem HAD to be big.
What if…hmm…hey, this could work! Okay, so at first he'd be all nice and oblivious and stuff, and then when he got closer to the president he'd start telling him his real opinions like any hero would! All right!
America pumped his right fist in the air, and let a grin spread across his face.
"Finally figured out what was bothering you so much?" Lucille asked, sounding slightly amused. He jumped, startled, before turning his bright smile on her.
"Yeah, I got it!" He chirped happily. Then, he slyly interjected, "So, what do you think of the president?"
Lucille smiled at America, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "He's very kind and generous. So polite, too. I think he'll be good for this country." Then, she frowned, staring at the ground with quiet, troubled eyes before looking up and inquiring, "Alfred…what do you think of Mr. President?" She asked almost like she knew that America didn't trust his new boss.
America nibbled his lip apprehensively, unsure of how much to tell her. On one hand, if he mentioned his suspicions and she shared them with the wrong person…her life could be in danger. On the other hand, if he didn't tell her, would she not go on blindly trusting the president, like a lamb being led to the slaughter? He couldn't let that happen.
"Well, Lucy…" He paused, trying to decide how to put what he wanted to say into words. "I think…he's going to do what's best for this country. I also think…" His thoughts were a mess. "He might not be as kind as we think he is."
Lucille tilted her head in confusion, brown eyes searching his solemn face. "What do you mean?"
Luckily, he was saved from having to answer by the appearance of the mahogany door in front of them. The words President's Officewere stamped across the middle in golden letters.
"Why don't I take this in for you?" America turned to Lucy and smiled, reaching forward to gently ease the tray from her hands. "You should take the rest of the day off, okay?" When the young maid hesitated, he grinned reassuringly. "Please. You've been working your ass off for the past few weeks. No one's going to yell at you. I'll sort out Mr. Pres."
Lucille looked hesitant for a couple more seconds, but her decision was made for her as her jaw slackened, and her mouth widened into a loud, wide yawn.
"O-O-O-O-kay." Lucille managed through her enormous yawn. "I-I-I-If you insiiiiiist…"
America couldn't help but be amused as the young maid stretched, arching her back almost catlike, and began to stumble tiredly down the hall. The poor thing was being so overworked, he mused, balancing the tray in one hand. Politicians never did bother to actually wonder how their beverages magically appeared before them.
Speaking of politicians…
America took a deep breath, and walked through the door.
The first thing he noticed was the line of terrified maids, butlers, and other White House staff lining the walls. Tall, muscular guards in black suits and sunglasses (Men in Black wannabes?) stood at attention on either end of the line, guns ready to fire if necessary. Their eyes were currently trained on him.
The next thing he noticed was that the chief of White House Staff, Jacob Lew—or as Alfred affectionately called him, 'Jack'—was standing in front of the president's desk with a slightly alarmed look on his face. Perhaps that was an understatement; the man was almost terrified.
And, of course, there was the president himself, sitting in front of his chief of staff, a smug look on his face.
They all turned to look at America as he entered the room. Under the stare of a dozen relieved/frightened people he knew and a couple fiery glares from the guards, he froze. Sure, America liked the spotlight, but these people were all…
…Well, damn. He mentally scrapped his original plan, and decided to start bullshitting his way through this.
"Um…Hi?" Smooth. Very smooth. "I brought…drinks."
"Alfred." Jacob sighed in relief, body sagging as pent-up tension was released. "Thank God you're here." America was about to respond when a cold, hard voice cut in.
"I believe I am the president, so I shall do the talking." The president of the United States stood up, and stalked toward his suddenly confused country. "Who are you? Give me a good reason why I shouldn't shoot you."
Aw. What, no sickly sweet mask to entertain him with?
"Because…" America scratched his head, leaning to make sure the drinks didn't spill all over his already irate boss, "I brought drinks and cookies?" He held out the tray as a peace offering, feeling slightly satisfied at the man's perplexed expression; he was most likely not expecting the simple yet ingenious answer. "And because it'll look bad when it gets to the press."
The president smirked. "I could call it an assassination attempt."
America returned the expression. "With more than a dozen witnesses saying it isn't?"
"What if I killed them, too?" The question appeared to be mainly out of curiosity, but there was a slight edge to its tone, as if the president was sincerely considering the option.
Jacob and the others gasped, but the president silenced them with a warning look. The frightened people sent Alfred desperate glances.
This man, his boss, wouldn't shoot more than a dozen people, would he? The guy was probably just joking. After all, even though he didn't seem very nice, the guy had fooled the nation! There was something off about him, but he wasn't that good of an actor. Was he?
But…
"These people have families. Those families are going to look…and they'll track the deaths back to you." America grinned.
"'Terrorist group conspiring against the President'. That's a good article title, don't you think?"
Damn, he was good. But America didn't come to have an intelligence battle against his boss—especially one hypothesizing about the deaths of innocents (Actually, this conversation had gone from 'a mild nuisance' to 'sick' in about five seconds). He had come to explain just who—and what—he was.
"Yeah, um, right. I didn't come to chat about how you should cover up killing dead people." The sentence didn't quite flow. America frowned slightly. "Yo, boss man. I need to talk to you for a couple seconds." With a surreptitious look at the other people, he leaned in slightly, as though they were schoolboys conspiring together. "Y'know. Alone."
The president took a startled step backwards, a disgusted look curling his lip. It was obvious he did not want to mix with rabble such as the apparent teenager. Then, his eyes lit up slightly with surprise, and the carefully formed mask was replaced. "Well, just as I was telling all these people here…You're fired. Permanently." For a second, his true emotions showed on his face: disgust and a bit of condescending hatred. "So, no more of this…'boss man'." The way he said the words made them sound as though they were revolting curses.
"Sorry, buddy." America actually laughed at the stunned expression on the presidents face, then let out a huff of surprise as the drinks nearly spilled everywhere. He handed the tray to an older maid leaning against the wall, before turning back to the fuming man who was supposed to be his boss. "I'm sort of permanently unfireable." He withdrew his ID again, grinning smugly as the president sputtered with surprise. "Like I said, we need to talk. Alone."
The president, slightly red in the face, stared at America furiously. His sharp, diamond-hard eyes flickered angrily onto the perpetually happy face, trying to find a crack in the perfect mask, in the loud, exuberant laugh. He had always considered himself a mastered actor, one who had no match, no rival to speak of. He was simply that good; he was not boasting or bragging. It was the statement of a simple fact. No matter how much he despised the pathetic people around him, chattering and whining and complaining about their silly little lives, he managed to keep up his mask.
And yet this…boy, this teen, was managing to best him!
He caught the teen's innocent blue eyes in his own dark brown ones, despising the naïve, trusting gaze. Perhaps anyone else would've supposed that this was how he always acted, that this foolish boy was nothing more than that; a foolish boy.
But a master of disguise always knows how to recognize another master of disguise. And that was exactly why he hadn't even tried to act as the generous man he had portrayed.
The blue eyes suddenly flashed with a sharp, dangerous intelligence, the smiling lips pulling into a smirk.
And then, just as quickly, it disappeared. But the President had seen, and this…whoever he was, knew it. It had been completely intentional.
His mind was quickly made up.
"Leave us." The president waved the guards away, ignoring their slightly surprised faces. "Do not come in unless I call you." When they froze for just a second, torn between protecting their employer and obeying the order, the man barked a short but powerful, "Leave!"
They darted out, the staff close behind, Jacob pausing to send Alfred a comforting look before he closed the door behind them.
It was so quiet. Minutes that seemed like hours were spent sizing each other up. America was the first to shatter the silence.
"So I guess you're wondering who I am." America began, scratching the back of his head, and letting out a soft laugh.
The president narrowed his eyes and walked around the desk to lower himself into the plush black chair. "I suppose I am. Now," He leaned forward, folding his hands in front of his mouth. "Talk."
So America did.
He launched into an explanation of who he was—and more importantly, what he was. He showed the president the letter signed by all of his former bosses verifying his identity, he explained his super-strength and ties to the nation. Just as he had done for every president before, America explained his story.
And the president sat there and listened…believing every word. Of course he did. He knew there was something special about this child…
"Are there more of you?" He interrupted the tale America was winding with a suspicious glint in his eyes.
"No. Just me, since I'm the most powerful country right now." America didn't fully trust this man—he was taking a risk just explaining who he was. If this man truly had malevolent intentions, what if he got his slimy hands on Mattie or Iggy? Alfred would never forgive himself if they got hurt because of him. Either of them.
Admittedly, telling the president that he was the country was his way of gaining immunity. After all, every American felt some connection to their country, and would not try to hurt them intentionally. Of course not—that was patriotism for you.
"I see…" The president paused, his eyes searching for any chance of a lie. There was a tense silence, as America waited for the man's verdict. "I believe you."
He let out the breath he'd been holding, and laughed, reaching to scratch the back of his head. "Wow, you really had me going for a second! For a second I actually thought I'd have to try and prove it to you!"
"I believe you," The man repeated. America frowned and lowered his hand, suspicious by the man's dark tone. "Super strength? Immortality? Do you know what we could do with a whole army of you?"
The country took a step backwards, heart sinking in his chest. He knew exactly what they could do if they had a whole army of him. "I-I really don't like where this is going. How about I leave and let you think this through properly—?"
"Oh, I've thought it through," The man rose to his feet, eyes glinting with the promise of power and enough strength to take down the whole world. "We could take the world. We could hold the world's might in our grasp. Think of it! You would not want for anything. World powers would bow down at our feet! Think of it!" He was maniacal now, voice spinning a tale of great majesty. "China! Russia! England! The world could be ours!"
And for a second, America wanted it. To have the other nations trembling beneath him; they would no longer think of him as the fool, the buffoon of the world. They would regret the day they ever called America—
No.
No.
He couldn't do that.
"No…I can't."
Not even to them.
It was so…unheroic.
"You'll have to figure out your own path to world domination. I'm not it, bub."
America stood firm in his decision, ignoring the little voice in his head that was telling him to seize the offer. He'd promised himself a long time ago that he would never intentionally abuse his power, and that particular promise he had kept. He never purposefully tried to tell another country to do something just because he was stronger.
No matter how tempting it was.
There was a tense silence, where the president calmly observed the resolute country standing before him. He will not bend, the former realized, and let out a soft, almost apologetic sigh. Both America and his president recognized it as fakery. "Very well," The president removed a bright red button from his pocket. "I suppose you leave me no choice."
He pressed the button.
The guards burst into the room, guns ready to fire. The muzzles swung wildly around the room, searching for the threat; they settled on America, who gave the guards a wide-eyed stare. When the room was secure—the only threat they could see being the young country—they turned back to their boss. The leader (or, at least, the one who spoke for all of them) nodded his head, and said, "Awaiting your orders, sir."
The president's next words sent a chill of alarm through everyone else in the room. "Tranquilize it and tie it up—don't hurt it. We need the specimen alive…and unharmed. Oh, and use the strongest tranquilizer you have…I'm guessing we'll need every last ounce."
One of the guards drew a tranquilizer gun and shot it at the stunned country. Obviously he had expected one standard-issue dose to be enough, contrary to the president's warning.
Poor sap.
It was purely reflex; America caught the dart between his gloved fingers, blinking slightly in surprise—he couldn't quite believe that this was happening. The guard let out a shout of astonishment at the country's inhuman reflexes, which faded into a painful yelp; America had thrown the dart back at the source, striking the neck. The guard crumpled to the ground, downed by the strong anesthetic coursing through his system.
The others froze, all still shocked by the feat. America took advantage of that, spinning around and ripping the door off its hinges as though he was tearing tissue paper. He tossed the door at the cluster of guards and broke into a run, not stopping to see the damage he'd done.
The president recovered first, his face purpling with rage. "After him!" He sputtered, "Don't let him escape!"
"Sir!"
America turned the corner quickly, looking over his shoulder; no guards seemed to be following him. Apparently they'd all been slightly afraid of the door he'd thrown.
I've always wanted to try that, America thought, grinning and unconsciously slowing his pace. His mind no longer perceived a threat; he saw no reason to run anymore.
That was America's biggest mistake. Common sense said America should've immediately run out of the building and texted Canada, England, France, hell, even China. Common sense said America should've panicked, looking around every corner to see if someone was there. Common sense said America should've tried to get the president impeached.
But America and common sense had never crossed paths, and most likely never would.
So, as America grinned and praised himself about his short victory, he didn't notice when a lone guard turned the corner, tranquilizer gun held nervously in one hand. He didn't notice when the guard let out a soft gasp, and aimed the gun at his back. He didn't notice—
Until he felt a sharp prick in his shoulder.
The powerful anesthetic immediately began coursing through his veins, and he stumbled slightly and let out a soft cry of alarm. A gloved hand reached around to clasp the dart and yank it out, and he quickly discarded it on the floor.
The world was growing fuzzy around the edges, and he felt as though he were hearing everything underwater; America vaguely perceived shouting, which sounded suspiciously like, "He's over here! Hurry!"
Got to get away…I shouldn't have stayed here! Cursing his stupidity (for once!), America broke into a clumsy jog, sideswiping the walls several times due to his impaired coordination.
No…this can't be how it ends! It takes more than a tranquilizer to bring a hero down!
And with that, his clumsy jog turned into a full out run, even as he wavered, his feet unsteady, feeling as heavy as lead. Though he wasn't as fast as he was before, he certainly could still escape, if he continued at this pace for a while.
It might be a good idea to text Mattie or Iggy, Alfred thought. Actually, it would've been a good idea to text one of them earlier.
That was his last thought before he felt another prick in his arm, which very quickly numbed up.
Immediately, he crashed into a wall, hands scrabbling uselessly. His face contacted with something hard—a doorknob…that's a doorknob!—and he, ignoring the dampening voices as best he could, groped for the handle with desperation. After several seconds of doing his best to open the door, his dead fingers finally found purchase—and the door opened.
He'd hoped it was a room with windows, some place he could jump out of or something, but…
His fuzzy mind could only manage slight despair and mild fury when he found himself in a supply closet, filled with mops, brooms, and other random cleaning supplies. Hardly a weapons vault, or a bunker, or an escape route—
America let out a loud sigh, and slowly allowed himself to slump against the hard-wood door. Cornered, trapped, tranquilized (twice)…there was only so much a hero could go through before he finally admitted defeat.
And now…
He finally admitted to himself that there was no way out of this.
Except…for the sidekick...Mattie.
His hand slowly, lethargically, began to pat his pocket, searching for the phone with numbed fingers. I'm losing feeling in my fingers…soon it'll be too late. Finally he felt it—a small, hard lump in his pocket that was too big to be a roll of fat. Fingers danced against the edge, reached in, tugged it out—touch screen, thank God—and he tapped, 'New Text Message'. Contacts…France…Iggy…Mattie!
His vision blurred and the words swirled on the screen, but somehow he managed to type four letters—four simple, meaningless letters; a single word that could have changed what was to come and could have prevented an almost-apocalypse.
Something rammed into the door; he gasped and felt himself going under. Not now!
Finally—finally—he tapped send. Satisfied, he relaxed, tension draining from his tired body.
The door jumped beneath him again. Another thought, jumbled and broken, jumped into his brain.
They'll…find the…phone. They'll track…down Mattie...They'll find Iggy, and France, and…
Sluggishly he lifted his arm and…with the last of his legendary strength, flung his arm out, snapping his wrist. There was a soft, muffled thump, and finally, he was finished. His brain short-circuited, his vision went dark, and all feeling left his body.
Something slammed into the back of his head, and he slid forward, arms smacking a cleaning bucket in the corner.
And America knew no more.
Many kilometers away, in a small cabin in Canada, a small iPhone did not ring. Matthew Williams, also known as the embodiment of Canada, continued eating his pancake breakfast.
Buried deep in the wall of a supply closet, another very similar iPhone in Washington D.C. flashed a message on its cracked screen: "No signal. Message saved to drafts."
Hey folks! So I know I've been talking about this for a while, and it's finally here! This is the massive project I've been writing for God knows how long. It'll be an epic trilogy. And trust me, it'll be EPIC. I have the entire first part written, and I'll update once every two weeks, until I get to the time skip. Then I'll wait a month before posting the second half.
Warning: Several OCs.
I'd like to thank my BFTTFAM, who read this chapter after chapter. Also West Pharaoh. I'd also like to thank Gargoyle Alchemist, who beta-read for me and who I'm forever thankful to, and my sister, who edited some stuff when she had the time. This couldn't have gotten off the ground without you guys!
IceEckos12