RUSSIAAAA!!!

I glanced around nervously. Everything seemed fairly calm, but I had learned from bitter experience that five nations crammed into a conference room was a problem. If I followed that vein of thought, one hundred nations crammed into a dance hall, combined with a bar, would turn out to be an international emergency.

However, for the moment, things seemed relatively calm. France was stealthily approaching a partially intoxicated England from behind; Germany and Italy were laughing together, or rather, Italy was laughing and Germany was listening stoically to a long and convoluted story about tomatoes. China and India were politely, if stiffly, talking about the weather, and the three small Baltic nations were all trying to disappear into the woodwork. So far, it seemed to all be working for a change.

I turned to the bar myself, ordering Lagidze water. As usual, the bartender didn't have a clue what I was talking about; I sighed, and ordered an American Coke. Sipping it delicately (fizzy bubbles are apparently meant to counter the lack of taste), I found myself hoping Armenia or Poland would come over to talk. I knew Azerbaijan would refrain from such a meeting as this, but still, it would be nice to catch up—

CRASH.

I turned sharply, still clutching my soda, to find Estonia sprawled on the floor, bleeding from a dozen small cuts on one side of his face. The nation I feared the most stood over him, holding a broken vodka bottle loosely, a small smile on his face.

The chair of the conference (America, as usual) was busy breaking up a small fight between Serbia and Montenegro, so there would be no help from that nation, but England, at least, stepped forward. "Gentlemen, and I'll use the term loosely, what the bloody hell is this? We're at a summit, talking about nothing more violent than climate change. What did you say this time, Estonia?"

Lithuania muttered a reply, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Russia is mean when he's drunk; you should know that, England." The island nation flushed, but continued to act as a moderator.

I saw this go on, and couldn't help but wonder why England thought Russia was in the right. Estonia was the one on the floor, the one glassed by a crazed nation that would rather shoot you than shake your hand. I gulped; someone had to defend the small ones. I then gathered my courage and spoke, quite politely, I might add. "England-san, I believe that Estonia's not the one at fault here. It's quite clear that Russia struck first."

The large Red nation turned to me, his violet eyes cutting me to the bone. I shuddered, holding his gaze as steadily as I could. "Ah," he whispered, somehow pleased. "I wondered when you would speak. You were always so…individualistic." Louder, he growled, "These small nations, yourself included, cannot be invited to such a conference without it being a slight to me. I see no reason not to respect a nation that was once part of Russia, that so foolishly became an independent nation."

Estonia muttered, "Your tanks were in Tallinn. You forced us to it, and we did it without a single Estonian killed." He flinched as Russia glared at him again, but continued, louder than before. "Estonia was glad to escape from the iron hand of its oppres—AUGH!" Russia had kicked him below the belt with his steel-toed boots; the smaller nation, curled in a ball of pain, was hurriedly dragged out of range by Latvia and Lithuania.

I couldn't take this! "Russia, I will ask you once. Please leave this summit if you cannot tolerate countries such as mine."

Russia's smile grew bigger. "Me, leave? Oh, no, I couldn't do that." His eyes narrowed suddenly, and his smile vanished completely. "Not without compensation." He lunged forward, and grabbed me by the hair; I shrieked in pain and surprise. Fluidly, he slid a switchblade from his white kid gloves, and --shnk—placed it next to my throat. Almost every nation watching froze.1

Russia backed towards the doors, but pulled me with him, laughing softly. I struggled to get loose, but his grip was truly one of iron. "Let me go!" I screamed. "Let me go! I have national sovereignty!"

"Russia-san!" America yelled. "Put down that country immediately, or I won't trade with you for…" he went bright red for a second, then continued, "You know what I mean!2 Besides, you can't get three steps out that door!"

Russia's gaze flickered towards the door, and indeed, two guards in the blue UN security uniforms were standing there, barring his exit. He laughed, then, the gurgling laugh of a young child pulling the wings off of flies. "Is this all you can do?" he asked. He continued towards them, then as he was level with one guard, his wrist flicked out, and the man clutched at his leg and swore in a variety of languages, the switchblade imbedded in his upper thigh. Without a second's pause, Russia pulled out another one and did the same to the second man.

Russia then grabbed me by the throat; I fought to breathe, to break his grip, but it was useless. America (brave country) called one last time, "Russia! You know you can't get away with this!"

Russia's grin was back. "Oh really?" His wrist flicked towards America, and I heard the cry of pain that followed, but I was dragged from the room with my captor before I could see what had happened. All I knew for sure was that my worst dream had come true.

I, the sovereign republic of Georgia, was back under Russia's control once again.

1 Well, Italy and France were singing a song about tomatoes, but no one was paying attention to them.

2 Referring to the condom deal, of course.