Issa's POV

"Sorry," I mutter as I run into a person. They don't answer. "Sorry," I say again after stepping on a different person's foot.

"Yeah, you'd better be!" he responds. As he walks away, he guffaws with his friends, basking in his clever comeback.

Please note my sarcasm.

I smooth a strand of hair behind my ear and sigh. Boys can be so obnoxious. Anyway, I step back and start off in the direction of my last hour class: US History.

Aaaand as I do that, I run into yet another person.

"Sorry," I say for, like, the millionth time that day. Thank goodness it's almost over. I've had a really long day already, what with my other classes. English I, Algebra I, Family Studies (affectionally dubbed "Facs", pronounced like "Facts"), Drama, lunch, Physical Education (or as I like to call it, torture), and then Physical Science. PE always wipes me out, and, as you might be able to tell, I hate it. Wouldn't miss it if I wasn't enrolled in it. Anyway, that's my schedule and reason I would like this day to be over with already.

"S'okay," he responds, hurrying off. I recognize the blond mop of hair to be Josh Davies, a person I've never really paid much attention to, other than noting the fact that he looks almost exactly what I think England from Hetalia should look like.

...Yes, that's the only reason I've noticed him. Don't look at me like that.

I guess you can say the past year or so of my life has been pretty pathetic; everyone who I thought was my friend really turned out not to be, and all that. I try to be lighthearted wbout it; if people don't want to be my friends, they know me as that one girl who occasionally says something funny.

A good sense of humor is maybe the only thing about me that stands out; I'm not particularly pretty, and I'm skinny to the point of being downright scrawny. My hair is a dull shade somewhere between dark blonde and light brunette, shoulder-length and of medium thickness. I dress like all my clothes are hand-me-downs I haven't quite grown into, but that's just the way I like it; oversized clothes are like wearing hugs. I suppose, however. this just makes me seem odder than I really am.

My imagination is pretty wild. Most of the time, I pretend I'm Canada. I know, it's really silly, but there you go. I kinda look like him, and I act more like him than America. I once cut my hair to make my Canada cosplay a little more realistic. It's the same shade as Canada's, so I didn't need a wig, and I even got a necklace with a maple leaf pendant, which I am wearing at the moment. I often look for physical features on other people that make them look like Hetalia characters. Like, how that sophomore has Hungary's hair color...how that junior has America's eye color...how that senior has France-ish hair...And how Josh has England's eyebrows, hair color and style, and eyes.

Today...my imagination seems to be running wilder than ever, though. I think I see people who look like the Axis. The one who looks like Germany is talking to the German teacher. In German, I guess. I only know a couple random phrases and words in German. I'm better at Japanese. Still not fluent, but I bet I could make my way around in a Japanese-speaking enviornment.

The Germany suddenly looks at me. I duck my head, caught in the act of staring, and I start off. "Oi, matte," he says, touching my shoulder. (Hey, wait.)

I stop and turn around, smoothing a strand of hair behind my ear and shifting my backpack. "Hai?" (Yes?)

"Chotto matte, kudasai," he mumbles distractedly, lookng around in a black messenger bag. (Wait a minute, please.)

"Wakatta," I answer, standing still. (Okay.) He glances over at me and nods approvingly.

"Excuse me, but do you know these men?" the German teacher asks me.

I shake my head. "No, I don't think so."

"Then, would you please go to class? They came in here without stopping for a pass at the office, and the rules are that they need one, you know?"

I nod. "Should I go get the office, or...?"

"No, it's fine; just go to class, please."

I nod again and start going down the hall, but, again, the Germany stops me, putting a hand on my shoulder. The German teacher starts talking to him. The blond only waves him off and stares at me. The Japan is also staring at me, but the Italy doesn't seem to care. He's still flirting with girls as they pass. The flow of students is waning. "Chikoku desu," I tell him,suddenly nervous and uncomfortable with his contact. (I'm late.) Again, the German teacher starts trying to intervene. I find it hard to keep eye contact with the stranger; he keeps trying to look me in the eyes, though, so I stare in his eyes as long as I can stand. The Germany hardly acknowledges him, keeping one hand pressed on my shoulder.

I have to break eye contact again, embarrassed. I can't stop thinking about the flaws I have, like the zit on my cheek, my hair sticking up, the way it always does when I put my hair in a ponytail, so I let my bangs fall over my right eye. I look down. Suddenly, the man grabs my chin and lifts it up, making me look at him. The gesture wasn't all that gentle, and my anxiety increases a little. I begin to be grateful that we're in a populated area; they won't be able to do anything illegal with all these witnesses.

I don't know why I just thought they were planning something illegal. I shouldn't judge people based on first impressions. It's just, they all have these black messenger bags. I know there's a manilla file or two in the Germany's, because it's unzipped and he's the closest. He also has ropes or something. And then there's something else. I can't exactly put my finger on it...

With a small, stifled gasp, I realize what it is. I push the man's hand away from my face and look at the German teacher, addressing him. "H—he's got a gun," I stutter.

There are still a few students loitering in the halls before class, and all of them that surprisingly heard my whimper gasp—or scream, in one girl's case—and draw back. The ones that didn't wrinkle their noses, like, What's with the crazy freshmen today?

The German teacher finally physically intervenes, taking the Germany's arm by his elbow and pulling him off me. To me, he says, "Go." Then to the others, "Someone call the cops."

Though he didn't understand, the Germany fiercely shoves the teacher away with so much force that he hurtles through the air, landing on a different teacher's closed door. It breaks open. The kids both in the room and in the halls scream, and chaos erupts as people start scrambling everywhere to get away. I clap a hand over my mouth and quickly stumble back. My backpack hits the wall, and I let it fall to the ground. Before I can go much farther than that, the Japan has a knife out, pressed at my neck.

I stop moving. I think I stop breathing. Flashes of self-defense moves roll around in my head, like, punching him in the nose, bend his fingers the wrong way, kick his knee, kick him where it hurts. But he's holding a knife at my neck, so I stand still, pressed up against the wall. Exasperated, the Germany takes out the gun, a nine millimeter pistol, and he fires a few warning shots into the ceiling. It's a good thing we're already on the top floor. The students that haven't made their escape shriek and fall to the ground, hands over their heads to show they're not going to try anything either.

I hear police sirens.

It got really quiet. The only sound's the soft tapping of the Germany's shoes against the tiled floor and the faint wail of the cops. I watch from my position pinned against the wall as he looks over the faces of the students trapped here: maybe twenty or so from all four grades. A lot of the girls cover their heads with their hands and hunch together, whimpering in fear. I see a boy put a comforting hand on his girlfriend's back, though he looks ready to pee himself. Of the hostages is Josh Davies, kneeling besides a friend, staring up in horror at the Axis dopplegangers.

"Kiritsu," the Germany grunts at him. (Stand)

"I— I don't—" he stutters, shaking his head a little. He looks desperately at me. "Do you know what he said?"

I nod as well as I can with the Japan's knife at my throat. "H—he said to stand," I translate.

Josh shakily nods, muttering a "Thanks" at me. The Germany stares at him for a few minutes, deciding something. Then he turns to the Japan and nods.

Slowly, as if not to frighten me more, the Japan gesture with his hand to walk. I side-step away a few yards. Suddenly, the teacher in the room with the broken door jumps out at the Germany with a loud yell, swinging a baseball bat agressively at him. Faster than I can blink, the Germany grabs the bat with one hand, splintering the wood, and he shoves the teacher away. He also flies down, but he gets up quickly, teeth bared in a snarl, weilding the now-pointy bat.

The man grabs the collar of Josh's shirt and wraps his arm around his neck, holding the gun to his temple. I hear his cry of protest and fear, his hands grabbing at the larger man's forearm, maybe as a precaution to spare himself from being choked. Without changing his facial expression, the teacher drops the bat and lets it roll away, and he takes a few steps to show he's not going to try anything for the sake of Josh's and my safety.

Slowly, carefully, the blond man starts pulling him back. Josh doesn't protest, although I do hear his almost inaudible whimper. The Asian man doesn't make me start walking until the other two are closer. I suppose it would be funny if it wasn't life-or-death; the height difference between me and the man is so great that I think he's on his toes to keep the knife level with my jugular.

The intercom goes off, saying that we are in lockdown, and this is not a drill, I repeat, not a drill, and for teachers to keep all students in their class rooms and for everybody to stay calm. It seems to me the secretary is trying to keep herself calm. I hadn't noticed how loud the sirens have gotten, but once the intercom stops, I can tell now they're right outside. As we pass a window, I see them, covering every possible exit.

In the back of my mind, this relieves me slightly. They have nowhere to go, nowhere to run to. Unless they can teleport, they're stuck here. The Germany must understand this as well, because he mutters one of the few German words I know.

The Germany lowers the gun and his arm and starts pulling Josh faster, making him come by grabbing the hood of my sweatshirt. The Japan puts his knife back in its little sheath at his waist and puts an almost comforting hand on my lower back. I flinch when he does, because I wasn't expecting it, and my mind is racing, trying to think of a plan.

I make a decision. "I'm going to run," I warn Josh in a whisper I'm not even sure he hears. "Follow my lead."

Muscles tense, ready to spring, I'm watching them for their weak spot, or a moment when their attention is gone, when Josh suddenly grabs my elbow. "Don't," he tells me, voice shaking. "We're in lockdown; all of the doors are locked."

"Then we wear them out and hide," I resolve. He's about to interrupt, but I cut him off. "We can do it. You're on the football team, right? I'm the first to finish my laps in gym every day. We can do this. Just wait for my signal." He doesn't look convinced. I'm not quite convinced, myself, but it's better than immediately surrendering.

Then it hits me: their weak spot is the Italian man. I almost laugh out loud, because this is too like Hetalia. I figure it out after watching the man in question trip over his untied shoelaces, and then the blond makes us stop. I wasn't quick enough to run when the attention was on him, but I have another way.

We reach the staircase. We're on the flight between the second and first floor when I gather all my courage. Taking a deep, calming breath, I whirl around and shove the red-headed man down the flight of stairs to the first floor. Then, I grab Josh's sleeve, yell, "Up!" as a general sign that he should follow me up the stairs, and start sprinting like I've never sprinted in my life. Almost immediately, there's a roar of indignance from the blond mixing in with the wailing of the Italian and the soft gasp of surprise from the Asian.

We tear out of the staircase on the third floor, the floor we started on. We're being pursued only by the blond man, which doesn't really ease my mind. I mean, I'm scared because he's muscular and fast. But he's like a rhinoceros, in a way; seething mad, sprinting full-speed, and ginormous; it means, through being smaller and more agile, we can change direction faster. I make sure we use that to our advantage.

I'm thinking aloud now, unable to keep the thoughts in my head. "He's on the third floor, which means Jackie Chan's going to be monitoring either the first or second floor, the staircase in particular. Dopey's gonna be with him. So if we shake off Papa Bear, we can take the elevator down to the first floor, and make it to the police!" I wasn't sure what to call them, so I just made stuff up; I think Josh gets it, though. I'm surprised he understood me through my desperate gasps for breath.

However, that plan's all a matter of getting away from the blond man, and it seems like I've run us straight into a dead end. "No...!" I choke out, hitting the wall with my palm in frustration. Then I whirl around just in time to see the man launch himself at us.

He positions himself so that his hands are pinning my shoulders against the wall. He shouts at me in German, and I stare with horror into his face. I realize I'm still holding Josh's sleeve, and I make my fingers unclench from the ball of fabric. With the man's attention on me, Josh can escape. I give his arm a subtle push in the unblocked direction of the main hallway without taking my eyes off the threat. He doesn't move. "Go," I breathe, pushing him with my fingers. "For goodness' sake, Josh, run!"

But saying his name caught the attention of the man, and he wraps an arm around my waist, and then around his, and he lifts the both of us ungracefully under his arms, breaking into a jog. I squirm for a few minutes, then stop and just try not to get whiplash. "I'm sorry," I whimper at Josh. "That was all my fault."

"S'okay," he responds, looking me in the eyes to let me know he really doesn't blame me. I nod, and then experiment a few different ways of struggling, including going limp—he's strong enough to carry my dead weight—stretching to drag my feet along the floor—he just lifts me higher—and trying to flip forward out of his grasp, which, frankly, is a stupid idea in itself. Even if it worked, I would only succeed in hitting my head against the floor, and he could just pick me up again, easy as that. I would have injured myself for a distraction that takes five seconds to correct.

We reach the Japan and the Italy, and they are in the staircase between the first and second floor as I predicted. The Germany lets us stand, but he keeps his hands clamped on the napes of our necks, like we're nothing but misbehaving puppies. I continue to thrash against his hand as he says something beyond my skill range to the Japan; the Italy is pouting at me, like he's more disappointed in me than angry or afraid of me. I find this weird, because there's a certain line you cross after pushing someone down a flight of stairs. But anyway, the others' biggest problem at the moment seems to be me.

The blond lets go of Josh, but keeps his hold on me. I'm confused and nearing my limit when I start crying when he reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out a roll of silver duct tape. A forewarning of, he's going to restrain me with that, crosses my mind when he shoves me face-first against the wall and starts doing just that. I let out a strangled yelp of protest and struggle against his powerful hands, but to no avail. He forces my arms behind my back and loops the duct tape around my wrists four or five times before breaking off the strand, and then breaking off another piece to clap over my mouth. He then turns me forcefully back around so I have to look at him, and he orders me in a low growl either to behave myself, of something else about manners. Either way, I get the message that I should be a good little hostage and try not to get myself killed.

Josh hardly puts up a fight at all when the blond decides to tie him up for good measure. I cna only imagine what's going through his head— why won't he fight?! He's being kidnapped, and there's no weapon being used against him—at the moment, anyway. I suppose he's just terrified. I am, too; beyond terrified. I'm so afraid that I'd rather risk getting hurt more severely than intended later while causing a distraction that could save my life than give them extra time to make their getaway with me in tow. Not everyone thinks that way, I guess.

After sticking a long strand of tape over Josh's mouth, they start marching us down the hall again. The corridors that I've gotten so used to look now like an abandoned passage from some sort of twisted horror movie. Who are these men, and what do they want with us?! What are they going to do?! Well, first, they have to corral us out of the building and into their escape vehicle. Then they have to escape the angry swarm of police, maybe by switching cars, getting onto a plane or two, or looping around the city in a nonsense pattern until they confuse the drivers of the cop cars. They'll take us to some sort of safe place. Safe for them, anyway. It could potentially be the most dangerous place I'll ever go. But how long it would take is beyond me; could be a place somewhere in D.C.. Could be a little cabin in the Swiss Alps. And then what sort of horror would occur...?

We've reached the door to the parking lot. After peeking out, the Asian man confirms that we're surrounded. The German man mutters something I don't understand, sighs, wraps his arm around my neck, holds the pistol to my head, and kicks open the door.

A blast of the cold, January air hits me square in the face, and the sun reflecting off the snow outside nearly blinds me. Seeming to have no effect on my captor, he keeps pushing me farther outside. I'm painfully aware of the fact that I'm hyperventilating through my nose, but there's nothing I can do to stop it. When I can see again, I look around. There are three police cars. Six officers. All of them are armed, guns pointed straight on me. There's a news crew in the background, filming this.

"Nice and easy," calls one policeman, the one who looks the oldest, "put your weapons down. You're making a mistake, sons." A glance upward proves that the man holding me knows what was said, but the same cannot be said for the officers.

Without lowering his pistol, the man rips the tape off my mouth. I let out a small whimper as a few layers of skin off my lips are ripped off. "Hon'yaku suru," he orders me. Translate. He wants me to translate.

I take a few seconds to try to control my voice before calling out, "Th—they don't speak English." My voice still shakes liberally, but I think I got enough volume for it to carry across the distance. I wasn't sure for a second if I was supposed to translate that they don't speak English, or what the officer said. But after my rendition leaves my mouth, I think there's enough of a gap in the language barrier for the blond to assume what I said, and it was the right thing. I know I said the right thing because if I screwed up, he would've done something like tighten his grip around my throat, or put the gun closer to my head or something.

"What language, then?" asks the old officer. I answer, and he sticks his tongue against the inside of his cheek, thinking. If they spoke Spanish, the officers might've had someone there translate. But no. Japanese. Or German. Possibly Italian. "Can you ask them their demands?"

I nod as much as I can. "Na— nani wo hoshidesu ka?" (what do you want?)

The man isn't paying attention to me. He's looking around in his messenger bag with the hand that was around my neck. I consider running while his guard is down, but the muzzle of the gun is resting against my temple; I'd be an easy target. So I stay put, watching silently as he rummages around. He looks up again, not at me, but at the line of bodies and cars blocking his way. I notice his hand is still in his bag.

With quick reflexes, he puts something to his mouth and then throws the object. I realize what it is when he's in mid-swing, and, without thinking, I warn, "Grenade!"

There's an explosion behind the line of cars. Fire erupts. People scream and stop, drop, and roll for their lives. I'm frozen in place, staring horrified at the chaos as flecks of ash and little bits of metal land on my face. I'm only able to exhale the gasp I had been holding when the man spits out the grenade's pin, puts his gun in his holster, and throws me over his shoulder.

The Germany drops me in a snowbank, digging in his bag. He pulls out a set of car keys. While he does that, I struggle my way to my feet, and I blindly run, towards the roaring fire and the agonized screaming. I feel like a rabbit, darting away from the the threats as fast as my bunny feet will take me.

But it's not fast enough. The Japan grabs my hood, dragging me back. I may not be strong, but I can make a diversion long enough for an officer to help us. It would be a lot easier if my darn hands weren't tied, though!

So, I thrash around wildly, kicking at every inch of the Japan I can reach. I like to think it's all he can do to hold on the the fistful of my hood, but let's be honest, I'm a weakling. I don't know what I was thinking. The Germany pushes Josh in a black van with tinted windows, and then he comes back to help the Japan. He grabs me around my waist and lifts me up. I squirm away from him, making a fool of myself by imitating limp spaghetti and trying to flip forward to get out of his grasp. "Let me go!" I scream, kicking madly.

The man flips me upright and throws me in the back of the van. And I mean, he literally throws me. I am hurled straight into Josh, which hurts. While we scramble away from each other and assess the damage done, they slam the door and lock it. I crawl over to the door without the use of my hands and throw my shoulder against the glass several times. It also takes me a few minutes to come to the realize that I am not actually screaming like I am trying to do.

The van starts and flies out of the parking lot pursued by several police cars from the side of the school that didn't get blown up. I keep trying to force the door to open, but I'm not strong enough, and he makes several sharp turns so I fall over a lot and hit my head a couple times. I hear Josh yelling something I can't understand through his gag. He's splay-legged on the ground, trying desperately to remain upright.

Somehow I end up heatbutting him again. We both yelp in pain and jerk away. My back hits the seats. I don't even have enough time to turn around before the Japan slaps his hand over my mouth and nose, his other one grasping my forehead for stability. I give muffled scream and struggle, but he's too strong.

My head clouds over. Chloroform, I note. Or something like that; I'm not very knowledged in the drugs area. Several random thoughts cross my mind, like, will I get hungover from this, I don't want to get hunover from this, before he put the strongly-scented rag over my mouth, I noticed he smells like tea, and et cetera. I realize I'm staring at Josh. He looks scared and defenseless. He's kinda cute.

The Japan lets go of me, and I fall sideways, breathing in the clean air. I close my eyes, which was initally supposed to be a blink, but I don't have the energy to open them again. I don't even care about anything right now; I just want to sleep.

Josh is screaming now. It's not very loud, and he stops fairly quickly. The Japan leaves him alone because he's calmer than I am. Calmer than I was. I'm pretty calm right now. I shouldn't be, though. Why am I so calm? What's wrong with me? I should be fighting... I need to go home...I weakly move my wrists back and forth in a small attempt to break the tape. But with a long exhale through my nose, I go limp.