A/N: This past weekend I've been getting really into plot bunny stories. I think it was because I was feeling bad and I had a lot of weird nightmares. I don't know. Anyway, somehow I got to thinking about 2p!Italy was so ADORABLE even though he was, like, evil and stuff. And then I thought – if Italy's that evil just by being Italy, then how bad would Yugoslavia (my OC) be? (Basic run-down of Yugoslavia: She's a quiet pacifist/mostly neutral nation that's friends with England and Canada, and is the cousin of Russia. She doesn't like Germany, and she never uses contractions. …Of course, you need to read my story Yugoslavia to fully understand her story.) And thus, this came along. I'm sorry if I butchered anything, because the whole 2p!Hetalia concept is still new to me.
Obviously, I don't own Hetalia or 2p!Hetalia. If I did, it wouldn't be as awesome as it is. (Nor do I own To Kill a Mockingbird, but that's something different entirely.) However, Yugoslavia and 2p!Yugoslavia are mine.

You Only Die Once

The night was cold in the manor house in Belgrade, where a crisp winter wind threw gentle drifts of snow against the windowpanes. Within the house itself, the cold was not as bad, but it was still necessary for the couch's one occupant to hold a blanket around himself to battle off the chill.

It was almost on a whim that England had decided to take a week in early December and see the sights within the beautiful country of Yugoslavia. Having not seen his friend, the representation of Yugoslavia, in quite some time, he was more than happy to see her again before the stress of the holidays and the insanity of America's annual Christmas party. Of course, she had welcomed him into her home with open arms and gladly showed him the sights that her home had to offer. It was now three days into his stay, and with the outside temperature quickly falling, they had decided to stay indoors for the night rather than wandering through the streets of Belgrade. Yugoslavia had gone to bed relatively early tonight – My paperwork is running me dry, she had joked – so England was left alone with his thoughts and To Kill a Mockingbird. Now, sitting under the dimmed light, he guessed that it had been little more than an hour ago when she disappeared from sight. Pausing at the end of the paragraph he had just read, he glanced up at the clock on the house's mantelpiece, steadily ticking the time away without any thought of the world around it.

11:36.

A pair of footsteps sounded at the top of the staircase behind him, slowly growing in volume as their owner neared the ground floor, the sound eclipsing the gentle tick, tick of the clock. England smiled faintly and took a sip of his tea, his eyes not again leaving from the page. "You couldn't sleep, Y?" he asked softly. "I can make some tea for you, if you –"

"Do not speak to me."

That voice. England froze in place. He had never heard that voice before, and yet somehow it seemed so familiar. Of course, it's Y's voice, he concluded. She must have just gotten out of bed, after all. But he second-guessed himself. There was no possible way that it was her voice. There was a dark, almost malicious tone to it that couldn't have possibly ever belonged to the kind, pacifistic girl that he knew and loved. He gently placed his teacup on the coffee table and turned around to face her. "Y, are you –"

"I would recommend you not calling me that."

England's breath caught in his throat. There it was again, that evil-sounding voice. It couldn't be… Turning all the way around, he saw the person standing behind him, and instantly realized that it wasn't.

The girl standing there had Yugoslavia's face, but that was where similarities ended. She had dark brown, almost black hair that reached just past her chin, and her skin was several shades darker than what it should've been. Her eyes glinted a vicious steel gray, the color of a bloodstained knife. Rather than the simple t-shirt and jeans that Yugoslavia had been wearing when she went to bed, this person was wearing what appeared to be a military uniform: dark beige pants with ripped cuffs, and a matching jacket thrown over her shoulders overlapping a black shirt. A dark brown belt hung loosely around her waist, and attached to it were several suspiciously knife- and gun-shaped holsters. One of these was open; the knife she held in her gloved hands, the blade resting lightly between her thumb and index finger. A scar ran down the length of her face from her right temple to her chin, and twisted slightly as she wiped the red residue from her blade with a sickening grin.

England instantly threw the blanket off of himself and stood, meeting this newcomer face to face. A dreaded thought slipped into his mind, and it took every ounce of his strength not to say it. A 2p… "What are you bloody doing here?"

Taking her eyes away from the deadly dagger in her hands, this other Yugoslavia laughed an evil laugh. "I would not be able to tell you." Her voice was as quiet as ever, and yet it projected across the room with the power of a scream. "I am not quite sure myself. I only know that I came here this way."

"Came here from where? What did you do to Yugoslavia?" England took a daring step forward, tensing warily at the sight of the weapon.

She smiled again, flipping the knife into the air and catching it with an open palm. "What did I do to her? Oh, you sorry excuse for a nation. I am her." She ignored the look of shock on England's face. "However, you will not call me Yugoslavia, nor will you call me Y. It is a repulsive nickname and I will not stand for it." She tapped the tip of her knife against her chin in thought. "You may call me Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, if you must say anything at all. In fact, I would prefer it if you did not."

Rather than voicing any of the millions of thoughts that were racing through his mind, England grew silent, glaring daggers at the country wannabe. This isn't Yugoslavia, he tried to tell himself. This is the evil version of her. This isn't her. This can't be her. But then, something happened. For just a moment, he saw her eyes flicker from their menacing gray to a soft aqua blue, and in that one moment he thought he heard the kindness and compassion of his true friend's voice.

"England, help m –"

"Silence!" As quickly as the real Yugoslavia's voice had come, it was replaced by its harsh counterpart, who suppressed the former nation with a single word. "I will not put up with any more interruptions from you." SFR focused again on the Englishman standing before her. "As for you, Britainja, I have already decided that I do not like you. And you know what that means." With a quick flick of her left wrist, the knife soared out of her hand and flew straight for England, giving him just enough time to move an inch before it lodged itself into his shoulder. She watched with interest as he cried out, reaching out shakily with one hand before dropping to his knees, swearing loudly.

SFR chuckled. "Oh, it looks like I missed. I was aiming for your heart, by the way." Crouching down so that their eyes met once again, she pulled another knife from her belt, as well as a handgun. "Here is how this is going to work, Britanija. I do not like you, so you are going to die. That is simple enough, yes?"

Grasping his shoulder around the blade to hold in the stream of blood, England glared at the monster of a girl that kneeled just inches away from him. "Leave my friend alone, you bloody barmy. …I know you're in there, Y. You… can do something about her…"
"You think that she can actually hear you?" SFR let out an amused snort, drawing a thin line in the hardwood floor beneath her with the tip of her knife. "…It is quite sad, really. There are so many ways I would like to kill you, but you can only die once."

England gritted his teeth, not daring to look down at his wound as streams of crimson oozed out from between his fingers. "You… you wanker… You can't just…"

"Don't hurt yourself, Britanija." In one swift motion, SFR brought her knife up so that the serrated edge dug into England's neck, cocking the handgun and holding it to his heart. "Oh, so many ways for one to die. How can I possibly choose? …Well," she added thoughtfully, "I think I will spare you the cost of a bullet. In your case, that would be just too easy. Right now, I would like to see you suffer." She pressed the knife further into the Englishman's throat. "Any last words, ste tužni izgovor za zemlju?" [1]

Feeling his breathing start to go ragged, England risked a look up into this monster's eyes. He stared them down, trying desperately to dig past her evil outer shell and find the one person within her that he truly cared about. "I… love you," he whispered, his dulling emerald eyes softening. "I know you… you're in there, Y. If… if you can hear me… I will always… love you…"

A flash of aqua blue lit up SFR's eyes, gleaming with sadness and affection, but was quickly replaced by the cold darkness of bloodlust. "How sweet. I would say it was nice knowing you, but that would be a lie. Goodbye." With her own words still echoing within the room around her, she sunk the knife into his neck, not stopping until the sticky scarlet substance coated the blade and fell in droplets onto the floor. She could see the light in his eyes fade into nothing, his moth wide open as if trying to express some hidden secret that was still left inside of him. Somewhere within the back of SFR's mind, a grief-stricken scream cut through her violent thoughts, but she remained smiling. She didn't do anything but stand, wipe the redness of her knife and gloves onto the edge of her jacket, and walk away. She didn't even worry about the murder she had just caused, the body she had just left behind, the blood-ridden figure of her former friend slouched back against the wall, the scarlet stains left in his wake…

-x-

She was greeted by silence when Yugoslavia's eyes snapped open.

For a moment, she didn't know where she was. Everything around her was dark, bringing on visions of people and indescribable things watching her from the shadows; only when her eyes adjusted to the light did she regain her senses. She was lying in a comfortable bed within a reasonably large bedroom, a warm quilt pulled up to her chest, faint moonlight streaming in from the window behind her head. Silence riddled the room; it nearly drew her to madness just listening to it. What finally broke her from her near-insanity was the soft whine of something near her. She sat up and was greeted by a pair of intelligent brown eyes connected to the furry tan-and-brown lump that was sitting on the bed next to her. The creature tilted its head to the side, as if sensing her fear and shock. She reached out to scratch the dog between the ears, but her hand froze midair. Her hands felt warm and sticky, as if they were still dripping with the blood spilled by her evil self…

England.

Frantically, she threw the quilt off of herself and literally leaped out of the bed, pulling her jacket around herself as she took off in a run down the central corridor of her Belgrade home. Please tell me that he is okay… She skidded to a halt at the end of the passage, throwing wild glances into every room she passed in search of a single person. Then, after an infinite number of minutes, she saw him.

Within one of the guest rooms of Yugoslavia's home, England was sleeping peacefully, his mind far away from whatever pain was surrounding him. She saw him flinch slightly under the comforter; he must be having a dream too. Watching him sleep, she couldn't even begin to think how the nightmare had come along, how the thought of hurting him could have possibly crossed her mind…

Yugoslavia sat down and leaned against the doorway, staring dismally at her hands. It was a dream, she told herself, gently touching each fingertip with her thumb. It was only a dream. England is fine, you are fine. There is absolutely nothing to worry about. But the feeling wouldn't go away. She felt guilt running like fire in her veins, his blood coating her hands and staining them a dark garnet red.

It is still possible, you know.

It was her voice, the voice of the Yugoslavia from her nightmare. It was mocking her, trying to purposefully keep her confused and conflicted. No, she responded with a grimace. I could never do that to anyone. Never in a million years.

You think so? What about Germany?

Yugoslavia clenched a fist. She was not about to let this thing beat her up over nothing. I may not like Germany, but that does not mean I would kill him over it!

People can change, my dear Jugoslavija. You never know…

You are a figment of my imagination. You have no right to boss me around. Yugoslavia forced the voice of SFR out of her mind, her head resting tiredly against her chest. All she needed was a peaceful, relaxing rest, but her own stressed mind wouldn't allow it. She felt her eyelids grow heavy and welcomed the feeling, allowing herself to be pulled into the comforting darkness.

She didn't notice the creak of a mattress behind her, the soft shuffle of feet against the floor, a pair of loving arms wrapping around her shoulders, the warmth of another body beside her as her consciousness ebbed away…

[1] – Her comment is Croatian for, "Any last words, you sad excuse for a country?" (By the way, Britainja is Croatian for "Britain." Because Engleska just didn't seem right for SFR.)