Note to readers. This story contains political thoughts and ideas. No one is expected to agree or disagree with all or even some of them. But this is an awesome story.
As always, if you enjoyed this, please review! I love hearing from you and always welcome good-natured criticism so I can improve!
Dear US Government. This is a piece of fiction that doesn't necessarily reflect my views on the President or the US Government or its policies. Please don't shoot me. Also, I am not making money off this and I do not own Hetalia, its characters, the United States President, the US Government or anything else of any value. This story is for entertainment purposes only.
Glossary
(f/c) favorite color
(e/c) eye color
(y/n) your name
(h/l) hair length
(h/c) hair color
(f/n) first name
(l/n) last name
You have never had a good sense of direction, even at the best of times. One time when you had just moved into your new house, you got turned around and confused with all the open doors and closets! Here you were, on your first tour of the White House and you didn't even know what floor you were on!
You were new to the Washington DC area, just landing your first well paying job. The commute was pretty horrible, but you were finally using the degree that you had spent so much money and time obtaining. After working feverishly for the first six months, you had received your first vacation! Well, two days and the weekend, but you weren't going to complain. It wasn't a huge amount of time but you were determined to do what you had been dying to do ever since you moved here. Act the tourist and see every statue, building, piece of paper, and anything else that had historic or patriotic value.
Being able to get tickets to tour the White House today was beyond good luck. The government website suggests you reserve space up to six months in advance! You could barely keep still in your excitement as your group enter the almost legendary building. Not even the loud protesters picketing across from the White House over the NSA and new healthcare act was going to spoil your happiness.
Things had been going very well as your tour guide lead you and your group down hallways and into rooms, explaining the historical importance of just about everything. You brush your (h/l) (h/c) hair out of your eyes as you stare at one of the most beautiful statues you have ever seen, one of the many artworks that were scattered around the building. The silver-worked wolves raced across the silver snow, so lifelike in their depiction that you wouldn't have been surprised if they had jumped off their base to continue their journey.
You blink your (e/c) eyes in surprise as you realize that it has gotten very quiet. Quickly, you throw your head up and look around the room, your (h/l) (h/c) hair fanning out behind you in your rising panic. You are alone, your tour group and even the watchful armed guards having disappeared.
"This is bad. This is so bad!", you think to yourself as you start to panic. Wandering around the White House alone, especially with the unrest outside, is not the best way to avoid getting shot by the Secret Service.
You race out of the room and look wildly down both sides of the hallway for your group. You hadn't been daydreaming THAT long. Had you? You randomly pick a direction and race down the hallway and around a corner, your (f/c) coat flaring behind you. You catch sight of a group of people turning around yet another corner and you hurry after them. You reach the end of that hallway only to see the tail-end of the group going through a doorway at the far end of THAT hallway.
"The White House is way too big", you think to yourself as you race to the doorway and find yourself at the top of a flight of stairs. You hurry down those stairs and find yourself in yet another hallway lined with doors. You don't see the people anymore, so you try all the doors as you walk past them. All locked. You reach the end of the corridor and the last door there. That one opens to reveal … another set of stairs, these ones dimly lit. Not knowing what to do, you slowly climb down these stairs, very glad you had worn your favorite sensible shoes. Unnoticed, the door shuts softly behind you, its lock activating with a soft 'snick'.
The stairs seem to go on forever, all the sounds from above have disappeared. If anything happened to you down here, no one would ever know. You shudder at the thought. Finally you reach the bottom. The room you are in is entirely made of concrete and is almost completely bare with the exception of a fancy sink and a hanging towel. There isn't even a carpet to soften the hard cold floor. A single strip of florescent bulbs is the rooms sole lighting. There are two doors in the walls, one which is standing open proves to be a storage closet for cleaning materials. The other door looks very solid and made of steel. Several electronic locks decorate its surface. You try the nob and sure enough the door is locked.
You stand there shivering in the cold slightly damp air, trying to figure out what you should do now. Your wool gathering is interrupted when the heavy door in front of you beeps loudly and the knob starts to turn. It's fairly obvious that this room isn't for the view of tourists, so you run into the dark storage room, being careful to not move the door from its half-way open position.
You hear laughing voices and watch as several dark suited men pass by your doorway. Your eyes widen as you recognize the next man who stops to stand in the middle of the small concrete room. The President of the United States. "OH SHIT!", you scream in your mind. If you weren't going to get shot before, you just upped your chances for it by a good 10,000%.
The President was wiping his hands on a small hand towel, joking with another man who you don't recognize, your fear crazed mind makes it impossible to understand their words. He tosses the rag through the storage room doorway and it lands at your feet. You have to stuff your fist into your mouth to stifle your scream. The President had been cleaning blood off of his hands. If you had any thoughts about leaving the room and trying to explain the situation to the President's guards, you certainly don't have any now.
You wait trembling as the President washes his hands in the marble sink, still laughing and then dries them on the white towel. You try to slow your rapid shallow breaths as you listen to the group ascend back up the stairs. You hear the slam of the door high up above you and you slowly creep out of your hiding place. You start to move in the direction of the stairs yourself when the sounds of muffled, strangled sobs reach your ears. These are the sounds of someone in great physical and spiritual agony. The type of sounds one makes when a person knows that this torture will go on and on without end because there is no one coming to save them.
You slowly turn around and you see that the heavy metal door that the President had exited from was still slightly open. Apparently in their joviality, the President and his Secret Service had neglected to make sure that the heavy door had latched correctly. The room beyond was pitch black and the stench emanating from it makes you recoil in disgust. The heart-wrenching sounds are coming from inside.
You aren't a law student, but it's even obvious to you that someone's rights are not just being trampled on, they had been stripped from them entirely. "Who could possibly deserve this?", you ask yourself quietly. This is obviously beyond Top Secret and there is no doubt that if anyone finds you here, you will be thrown into a federal jail, never to be heard from again. If you're lucky.
Even though all of this is going through your mind, you do not hesitate as you walk towards the foul smelling room. You cannot leave anyone in such misery, it just isn't in your nature. You have to really push to get the door open. It must weight 200 lbs. The crying cuts off in a terrified gasp as light enters what can only be a prison cell. You fumble to find a light switch and suddenly the room is filled with a harsh bright light, which only makes the site before you all the more horrible.
A man with a bowed head of filthy matted dark blonde hair was standing tied with chains to a large concrete column rising from floor to ceiling. He is dressed in a jumpsuit, it's color hidden under layers of blood, bile and other things you don't want to think about. Tubes are running from his body to an assortment of bags hanging from metal hooks from the ceiling and secured to the column. The good sized room is just as filthy as its prisoner with layers of blood and human excrement. Trays of dirty knives, scalpels, and what looks to be icepicks are to one side of the room. A small stained iron bound bat sits in a corner. You wonder what this man could have possibly done to deserve this fate.
You hesitantly edge forward toward the bound man, mindful of the foul smelling puddles on the ground. This isn't the place to slip and hurt yourself. The man looks up in panic at your approach and brilliant blue eyes stare into your (e/c) ones. The man seems so familiar... Like you should know him... , his name is on the tip of your tongue. He looks pretty bad up close, with dark bruises and cuts on his swollen face. You can see he has a filthy cloth shoved in his mouth and tied behind his head to muffle his cries. You reach forward to pull out the gag but the young man's eyes widen in horror and he slings his head back, hitting the concrete with a sickening crack to escape your touch.
"Please!", you beg in the voice you use with frightened animals. "I won't hurt you. I just want to help." The words slip out of you before you have time to think about them. You just can't leave anyone like this and damn the consequences.
The man's tired and defeated blue eyes stare at you, fear, distrust and indecision clear on his gaunt face. Finally he nods and you carefully pull the fetid cloth from his mouth and over his head. You fling it as far from you as you can in disgust. The man tries to speak and ends up coughing racking coughs that shake his whole body. He tries to moisten his cracked lips with his dry swollen tongue, but it doesn't help. You hurriedly reach into your (f/c) over-sized coat for one of the bottles of water you bought for the tour. You drop the cap in your haste and hold it carefully to the man's parched lips. You slowly tilt the bottle back as he drinks the entire contents in only a few seconds.
When he finishes he glares at you and with a hoarse voice snaps, "If you aren't here to hurt me, then why are you here? Come to laugh at what my government is doing to me? Maybe you're lying. Maybe you're trying to get my hopes up just so it will be that much more hilarious when you prove to be the sadistic asshole I know you really are."
His anger makes you step back. It's not that you didn't expect him to be angry. You would be pissed if this happened to you. You just didn't think he would be angry at YOU. You spread your hands in an appeasing gesture.
"No! It's nothing like that! I got lost from my tour of the White House and I was afraid of the Secret Service with their guns so then I followed some people and then there were these stairs and then the people were gone and there were more stairs and …." You are babbling and sounding like an idiot and you know it. This situation is just so surreal.
The imprisoned man's gaze softens. Apparently your babbling has proven your innocence to him. Or at least that you are not inclined toward torture. Or maybe that you are just an idiot. "Who are you?" he asks softly.
"My name is (f/n) (l/n). Who are you?", You ask.
A hint of pride enters the man's voice. "My name is Alfred F. Jones. I am the United States of America!"