Stand Back Everyone
Part: 1/6 (unless things get wildly out of control)
Genre: crossover AU, crack
Rating: PG-13.
In Order of Appearance this Chapter: Russia, England, Prussia, Belarus, Canada, Lithuania, Ukraine, France; a few names twisted but possibly recognizable from the Dr. Horrible universe.
Pairings: Russia/Lithuania, America/Lithuania, mainly. Nothing too hard-core.
Warnings: Language. Historical references all mashed up into one incoherent glob; if you are expecting accuracy you will be disappointed. Heavy and probably inaccurate accent. Human names used where hero/villain names are not.
Disclaimer: I own neither Hetalia nor Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. Characters only bear resemblance to living counterparts or other people through extreme coincidence. Characters' views do not represent my own.
Notes: See 'Take the Pieces' for the original piece. A recent piece of art by LJ's iraya_sama reminded me abruptly that I'd meant to get the full-length fic up and started before the end of October. And, while at the grocery store last night, I noticed that the next cashier over was dressed as Dr. Horrible. It took great self-control not to adopt a manly voice and go up behind him, clap him on the shoulder, and say, "It's curtains for you, Dr. Horrible. Lacy, gently wafting curtains," just to see how high he might jump.
The point of these stories is to point out that clearly, the stars were aligning. So I wrote the entire first chapter hyped up on Halloween candy between two and five in the morning.
Oh god I did a non-Canada-centric fic with actual chapters and plot. I don't even really ship either of the two main pairings, what the hell am I doing and how am I going to do it justice? *franticfrantic*

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[Audio Transcript. 5/20/08. Posted at 17:42 GMT. Source: htttp: // www. becomeone. slsaffiliates. net /#36]

KOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOL. KOLKOLkol kol -

(coughing)

... Always, it needs more work. I have recruited - what would you say - vocal coach, for the improving of the laugh, but never is it enough. I am hearing from some that I am foolish, to waste so much time on laugh. Insolence! True measure of one worthy of entering the SLS comes from timbre of the voice in laugh. I will succeed! This is year I will make it into the SLS. My application is strong, and well-recommended.


Work on Collective Imperative Ray is going well, for once. Only few parts left to finish. Testing will be beginning soon. I feel it in my bones. This is the one. Collective Imperative Ray. For common good. It will do what no other ray is doing. Tell your friends.


My viewers have been leaving many comments! This pleases me. It is fun, yes, to have many friends? I am hoping you are all looking forward to becoming one with me when I am making my final move. Several I am wishing to respond to.


Viewer Angelus is saying this to me: "Oy, Soviet, I heard you were supposed to carry off a major heist this Wednesday, but the cops were never called out. I suppose certain heroing activities made you think twice about your actions? Cheer up, carry on, it happens to the best of us."

(silence)

Angelus, you are mistaken. Doctor Soviet is not backing down before heroes. Any heroes. It is... insult, to even think it. As for this... cheer up, carry on... shit, what are you thinking the Doctor possibly needs 'cheer up' for? I was... ill. Very ill. Twenty-four hour flu, if you must know. Nasty little squirmy bug. Very ill. I have recovered since. Next comment.

(clearing throat)

Viewer Kestrel is saying: "Soviet! You psychotic bastard -" Nice, Kestrel. I am glad to know your opinion of the parents of mine. "You psychotic bastard, how long are you going to ignore your great and amazing nemesis? I waited in ambush in the park for three hours on Thursday and you never even had the decency to walk by. Pretty hard to be your nemesis when you're so damn uncooperative -" Ah, Kestrel, my delusional friend, have ever I given you reason to believe you are nemesis of any type?


You will not be being my nemesis ever. I have nemesis. Nemesis is being... Captain Freedom. Captain Freedom, Capitalist Tool, otherwise known as - ah, I am liking this, viewer Angelus has been calling him this in my comments, may I also have privilege to use this name? - Captain Gitface, Capitalist Fool. He has dislocated my shoulder again, last week, by landing me on parked car.


Soviet does not appreciate being tossed around like cat toy. I will destroy him. Next comment.


Viewer Bloodwhet is saying: "Dr. Soviet, I am your biggest fan. I think what you do is marvelous and gives people everywhere new hope for the future." Oh... that is very kind of you to say, Bloodwhet, I... hold on. "I offer you full support and complete devotion to your cause. If you should ever need a minion, please remember me." Why, I shall, most certainly. Are you being villain as well, then? What are your powers... oh. Oh, wait - "Please address your answer to the third bush on the right outside 1904 Bla..." Wait a minute, that's - outside... outside this... Um, just a.

(footsteps, fading, then returning, rapidly)

Viewer Bloodwhet, I am assuming you are the woman standing on lawn with the MARRY ME sign. It is regret to inform you that I am not - not - accepting proposals at this time. Please, be returning home, if you will. Next comment!

(a deep breath is heard)

Viewer Matt Snow is saying: "Hi, it's me. I know you're probably going to ignore this question, too -" Oh, now why would I be doing that? "- but I just think that it might be a good idea to maybe explain what you mean by your constant cryptic comments about 'only he will become completely one' and 'I will teach him to love the power of a Soviet.' Yeah, a lot of people have kind of been wondering... about that, so... so..."

(silence)

-

Every Friday, Ivan got off work early, and came home to dig under couch cushions and in his change dish for enough quarters to take his clothes to the laundromat. Every Friday, he dumped his clothes into the same washer, sat in the same chair reading a book, and watched the same people come in and out, chatting in a friendly manner and making small talk.

It would have been mind-numbingly boring but for one thing. One person, really.

He was quiet, shy until spoken to, all nervous green eyes and shoulder-length hair that always seemed slightly mussed. He spoke to everyone who greeted him, friendly and polite. He brought in cookies for familiar acquaintances, and everything from Tolstoy to textbooks to read while the washing machine thrummed its way through another load.

He came in every Friday, and every Wednesday - as Ivan had discovered by surreptitiously walking past the laundromat several times each day for a full week. His laundry on Wednesdays was quite different than his Friday laundry. Ivan suspected a busy sister or - awful thought! - girlfriend, from the pleated skirts, blouses, and dainty socks in his Wednesday loads.

His name was Toris Lorinaitis, he was twenty years old, and he was in his third year at the local community college. He always put his clothes into the washer right beside Ivan's, and Ivan had never spoken a word to him.

He had followed him home once, though. Hey, it was an accident. And curiosity. Toris had never even noticed he was being followed. He lived in a nice apartment block a few streets over. Suite 506. Fourth window to the left of the main entrance.

It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to Toris. It was that he could never quite get the perfect suave words out of his mouth in order to convince Toris that Ivan was worth talking to. It was funny, in a painful, ironic sort of way. All he wanted to do every time Toris even glanced in his direction was to blurt "Become one?" like an idiot, and that would simply never do.

Not that he wouldn't ask the question, eventually. But that was the sort of thing that one had to... work up to. It didn't take a genius to figure out that such a blunt approach might scare Toris off completely, and that would never do, either.

He understood one thing about why it was so hard. As he was, he was a failure. As he was, who was he to expect anybody to be even remotely impressed by a track record that mostly included being beaten up by his least favourite attention whore and so-called local hero? Yes, of course, it was just the kind of thing that would cast him in a pleasant light for anyone happening to look in his direction. He did not think.

One success. One success was all that he needed, to prove to Toris - to prove to the city - that he was not a failure, that what he was trying to do actually meant something for the greater good of all humanity, and then, maybe - just maybe - he could approach the other and say, Look. Look, this is me, I am more of a real hero than Freedom ever was, I am trying to change the world and make it a better place.

And maybe then - just maybe - Toris would be able to respect him, as well as like him. Because of course he would like him. How could anybody not? Except for Freedom. Freedom didn't count. Freedom was, as this unknown Angelus had put it so succinctly, a gitface.

Ivan wondered what a git was, and why it was so insulting to have your face be one, but in the meantime that was less important than having found a satisfyingly rude nickname for his nemesis, for days when frustration overcame common decency.

-

"... Also, it is your week to cook. Don't get too wrapped up in your lab work again, it's not healthy." Oh, fine. I hope you are liking borscht, it is all I am in mood for cooking.


Power in the hands of the people! Dr. Soviet out.

[end 5/20/08 post]

[Comments: 6]
Posted 5/20/08 17:43 GMT by Bloodwhet: I have patience, dearest Doctor.
Posted 5/20/08 18:21 GMT by Kestrel: Oh pul-LEASE, Soviet, such a lame excuse. I am way more awesome than that dude will ever be. Tell you what, you, me, Main Street, tomorrow at 1300 sharp, and we'll settle this business of who your real nemesis is once and for all!
Posted 5/20/08 18:28 GMT by Angelus: You are of course free to use the nickname I came up with. In fact, I say that the more who use it the better. By the by, I'm glad to hear it was only the flu stopping you on Wednesday. I do hope to see you on the move again this week. I expect to see you in the breaking news with a new ray soon.
Posted 5/20/08 18:35 GMT by Demeter: Please be careful, Dr. Soviet. I heard the police are beginning to moderate villain blogs nowadays, so be careful what you say here! I don't want to see you thrown in jail.
Posted 5/20/08 19:01 GMT by Bastille: Ah, Soviet! The romance you have injected into a tired and boring struggle of economic idealisms is beautiful to behold! I shall follow your travails with great passion!
Posted 5/20/08 19:28 GMT by Angelus, Reply to Original Comment (User: Bastille): GTFO of the comments, bastard.

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"Hey Doc. Got your mail while I was out." Matt Snow dropped the pile on the table, then began to struggle out of the heavy coat he wore everywhere, even in the summertime, tossing his gloves onto the couch before turning his attention to the zipper, which had become stuck.

"Ah, thank you, friend." Dr. Soviet began rifling through it. Junk... junk... another bill... junk... nothing, as usual. He sighed. Perhaps the SLS hadn't had time to process his application yet. Late spring, there was usually a rush of hopefuls applying, often young people in between years at the college or the university, most of whom were rejected without a second thought. He looked up as a thought occurred to him. "You did not return home last night. What is it that was happening?"

"Oh, uh... just, stuff, you know... stuff. Out. With... friends. Doing... stuff."

"What friends?"

"Demeter and Quixote, I'll have you know." A little more strength returned to Snow's awkward tone.

"They are not very badass."

"Neither am I," Snow pointed out, an edge to his voice.

"Ah yes, you remind me. Go cool kitchen down before I must be cooking tonight."

"... Seriously?"

He sounded affronted. It was really too bad that Matt Snow insisted on working the super scene along with everyone else, when clearly his powers were most useful in other circumstances. Like in a dairy. Or on a ski hill. Or in a morgue. Perhaps his family had made him feel inferior about misusing his given talents until he had agreed to at least try finding a position as a henchman somewhere. He'd never asked.

"I am having ice cream from friend Andres in freezer. He says, is half for you."

Snow's eyes lit up. Soviet smiled complacently, leaning again the edge of the table.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Snow said hurriedly, doubling back on his steps just as he was about to walk into the kitchen. He extracted a plain envelope from his pocket - no plastic window, handwritten addresses. Soviet's heart leapt into his throat. "I wanted to keep this separate so I wouldn't forget about it." His smile was almost sheepish as he handed it to him, then disappeared back into the kitchen. "It looked important. I think it's from your League. Isn't that their seal, the hammer and -?"

Ever so carefully, Soviet slit open the envelope, and pulled out the letter within, blood ringing in his ears.

"So what's it say? Good news?"

It took him a long moment to answer, as he had to reread it twice more before he could bring himself to speak. Dr. Soviet wasn't sure he could believe his eyes, but there was the writing on the page, as plain as day, the signature and the seal and everything, and if that wasn't enough proof that he was seeing what he thought he was seeing, nothing was. "I... I have received letter from... from Bad Marx himself."

"Oh wow." Snow reappeared in the doorway, eyes wide. "Really? From the leader him -? Wow. Isn't Real Lenin usually the one who sends out the letters? You've always got one from him before -"

Dr. Soviet nodded, excitement beginning to spark through his blood as he read through the letter one more time, just to truly convince himself that it was real. The words remained the same, full of promise. "He says... evaluation. Evaluation is needed, and Soviet League will be watching to see how I am performing over next week or two."

Snow hesitated, seeming to be unsure what reaction was called for here. "Well... that's not too bad, is it? It's not a no..."

"You are kidding, yes? This is fantastic! I am picking up last part, the stalinium, for the Collective Imperative Ray tomorrow, from transport. And by 'picking up,' I mean I am taking it forcefully, from capitalist scum." He folded up the precious letter carefully. "Soon the Ray will be complete, and I will have the entire city under its power! That should be impressive to the League, yes?"

"Ah, yeah. Yeah, probably." Another hesitation. "Armoured car?"

"Courier van." Soviet rubbed his hands, gleefully. "Like candy, taken from small child. Never will opportunity be more... opportune."

"You think you'll need any help? Any... making things cold, or, I don't know... covering your tracks with snow?"

Matt Snow looked almost hopeful. Soviet felt almost bad about shaking his head and crushing his dreams to be useful to anybody once more. "The League is watching now. I must do this all on my own. Also... it is the middle of May, my friend."

"Right," Snow muttered, hunching his shoulders. "Well, back to the kitchen for me, I suppose." And he slouched off.

Dr. Soviet stood irresolute and thoughtful in the middle of the living room for awhile longer, before striding purposefully over to the east wall, and opening the secret panel that led off into his lab. There was a lot of work to be done.

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