I don't own Hetalia

The sound was deafening; the rapid bangs of gunfire, the explosions of lobbed grenades, the yells of angry and injured soldiers. He could barely hear the communication between the men he was leading into the fray, but he paid it no heed.

A man fell down beside him, blood already pooling and cooling on the debris covered ground, his rifle lying abandoned before someone – he didn't know who – picked it up and emptied it of munitions, before tossing it to the floor once more. Three more of his comrades stepped over the man and released some return fire; the fallen soldier dead and forgotten. He himself spared no thought for the man who had just died, for it would do no good, and to be honest, he had never been a sympathetic person. Far from it. More often than not, he was the one inflicting the damage others pitied, all the while revelling in it. It had been a long while since he had done such a thing, but it was something that never left you, and already he could feel the adrenaline and the blood boiling in his veins. The thrill of war.

How delightful.

A pleased smile graced his lips, while he fuelled his rage and the wild aggression running through his body. After all, despite enjoying being in the midst of battle, he was only here in person for one reason. The battle could easily, would easily be won without his presence. But he had chosen to come here for his precarious state of mind – a mind many claimed he had lost long ago. He could not let what had happened go without a fight. How dare those damned fascists! Yes, the SSSR had fought back and won that siege, but still, the loss of so many good Russian citizens and comrades could not be forgiven. The price would be paid in blood, as it had been taken. All those lives would be avenged by the very country whose soil they had lived on. All those honest, innocent and brave souls who had been murdered in the city of Stalingrad would be given justice, and he would dish it out in person.

The German bastards would never get away with it. He would gain back his nation's pride and honour, while gaining the peace of mind he so desperately needed. Russia would triumph.

He aimed down his sights while ducking behind a section of wall that was still standing. By what he could see, this had been a row of houses, built with red brick and semi-detached. Now, it was a small collection of outcrops – small sections of concrete protection from the enemy. He rested the muzzle of the gun on a piece of the wall, remaining hidden from the fascists seeking a target. His aim locked on the head of a German soldier who had foolishly looked out from his cover, and he pulled the trigger allowing his grip to remain steady for three seconds. A burst of machine fire flew out from his PPD-40, and the German went down. A flash of vindictive success rushed through him, before he came back to earth, and took out two others.

The regiment was proceeding through the streets well, and he knew it wouldn't be long before they reached the centre of Berlin and flew the flag of the SSSR. The streets would be painted in red before the week was out, and the Germans would surrender. To him personally, he cared not how the Nazis were dissolved, as long as their stench was long out of his nose by the end of the year. The fascists would rot in hell if he had any say in it at all, and he was almost anticipating the capture of the high-ranking – specifically, the Führer. His people would tear the man to pieces, long before the French and the English got here.

But Russia… had bigger fish to fry. Oh, he understood the importance of Adolf Hitler and Joseph Goebbels – but he was after much higher and guiltier parties. The ones he would catch like pretty fish and take his pound of flesh from. He would rip them apart, and they would wish they had never turned their gazes to the SSSR. In fact, they would never look east again.

So yes, while Russia was guaranteed to crush Germany…

Ivan Braginsky was going after Ludwig and Gilbert Beilschmidt.

He wondered where they were. As the hours had passed and the fighting had only got dirtier and more intense, and he knew morning would be coming in an hour or two. The Germans seemed to be getting desperate, and were firing more haphazardly, which was proving a help and a hinder to his forces. While they were firing randomly and missing their targets more and more, they were also increasingly unpredictable; his men could not guess where they would appear from next.

These were different men he had now, ones who actually seemed aware of his apparent importance to the higher-ups, definition; Stalin. As a result, they seemed much less prone to questioning his strange tactics, while simply pleading they worked. Fools. Of course they worked. He wasn't one of the most powerful nations in the world for nothing. He had worked hard to get to his strength. Large land mass doesn't equal power, at least not without effort.

However, despite succeeding to cross the Moltke Bridge not an hour ago, the resistance they were meeting was becoming much heavier. The fascists here seemed to be more determined, most likely because many important and strategic buildings were nearby, and if the SSSR captured them, all was most likely lost. Of course, that was the goal. The Reichstag building. While the Germans hadn't used it since the fire in 1933 – according to intelligence – it would be a major step towards victory.

That was the reason he was slightly confused. The other nations should be here, if only to attempt to prevent his people from their target. He had thought many things of the two brothers, and had a list as long as his scarf of their various faults and transgressions – every single one would be paid for, one by damned one – but he had never considered cowardice to be on it. From past impressions he had thought they had too much honour to contemplate abandoning their nation in its final hours, but obviously not.

It didn't bother him much. It just made finding them slightly harder, and allowed his underlying frustration to build until bursting point. Because Russia was a master at harnessing and utilizing his emotions; it would only make achieving his revenge that much sweeter. He would channel his fury at what they had done; what they had yet to do; and denying him his wish for a period of time longer than Russia was willing to wait.

Ivan was not a patient man, and both Gilbert and Ludwig would know this intimately by the time he was finished with them.

The ends of his once cream scarf brushed the dusty floor of the building, the tassels dripping with blood, the cause of which was standing too long in a puddle of it. He swung his submachine gun into the face of a German brandishing a combat knife. The man fell to the floor with a crack, his nose broken. Before he could regain consciousness, Russia pulled out the TT-33 and put a bullet between his eyes.

He looked up from the fresh corpse, and sliding the handgun back into the holster on his right thigh, under his long coat. He swung up the PPD-40, and with a few quick bursts, the three soldiers coming down the narrow stairs along the corridor in front of him were taken out. The men who stood behind him with their guns at the ready said nothing, seemingly content to follow his destructive lead.

He strode towards the previously mentioned stairs, using the dead man's chest as a step, ignoring the crunch that was a result of his actions. The soft sound of his boots seemed to echo through the unnaturally silent former headquarters of the Gestapo, and he held his weapon at the ready.

However as the number of Germans taken down grew, as did his impatience, and it showed. He was becoming even more ruthless as time past, and it came to the stage where every man who stepped in his way was slaughtered mercilessly. But it wasn't enough. To begin with, each German he killed was a small victory, one life repented for. But now, where each fascist he killed was replaced by another, and another – it was becoming tiresome and enraging him to bigger heights than he had previously estimated. His thirst for blood was becoming insatiable, and he feared (was concerned – Russia didn't feel fear) that before long he may no longer distinguish between sides.

That would be… problematic.

Suddenly, a shout sounded from the archway not five feet in front of him, and three quick steps later, he was pointing his gun at the messenger who stood there with a very minute nervous twitch.

"What?" His voice was steady and to the point, betraying nothing of his inner mood.

"Comrade, we have orders to return, as the fascists are posing too strong of a counter-attack." The man's voice was slightly higher than one might have expected, but nonetheless, Russia understood.

That didn't mean he liked it.

"Were you given any other reason than that?"

The man shook his head. "No."

Russia looked down at the floor, and couldn't help question his absent commander – but, he had only gotten the go ahead to join the siege under the condition he followed instructions. So his doubts were quickly suppressed, because he was Russian, and he followed orders to the letter. Never let it be said that the SSSR was a nation full of deserters and a breeding ground of mutiny. Russian soldiers were loyal, never straying from the path marked out for them unless commanded.

It was a point of pride in his countrymen. Logic overwhelmed emotion in all aspects. Only when duty and sentimentality did not collide were other thoughts and actions acceptable.

So Russia would have to be content with his forced return. He tried to push back the unquenchable hunger, and ultimately failed. The monster than resided within him – the one which showed its presence in his innocuous smile and purple aura – was extremely unsatisfied, and he was almost contemplating simply leaving to find those bastards on his own. How he needed to find them. He needed to spill their blood, to cause them to feel the pain he did when almost half a million of his people were sacrificed because of the greed of a single man.

So he would wait with murderous tendencies for the men whom he could lay the blame on. Because, even if they under some misguided belief believed he was unjustified in his torture and massacre campaign; he would remind them exactly why it was his right. Painfully.

He tried to maintain a cool composure, but some of his hatred seemed to bleed into the atmosphere, and most of the men around him flinched. He smothered a shrug.

Fear was a good motivator. "Very well."

He had little concerns about whether or not he could in fact catch up to the German brothers, as he would eventually – nothing lasted forever, and their ability to hide from him would diminish quickly. And he knew from past experience that the long they denied him, the worse it would get for them when he found them. He was the master of grudges, and was supremely confident in his own abilities. They would not escape him.

The sun was low, and the sky was the colour of fire. Odd in an April evening, but very fitting.

He looped another belt of ammunition around his upper body, and secured it tightly. This would be their last chance to stock up. They had to take the building now, or risk the Germans gaining reinforcements.

The regiments had fallen apart earlier in the day, around noon, and now it was each man for himself, with one standing order. Take the Reichstag.

The supply crates were behind a twelve foot wall to the south, and not far from the building itself. Despite the campaign having begun as the sun rose, it was only now the troops were able to begin person to person fighting. The FlaK 40 anti-aircraft guns that had been positioned on a tower some distance away had finally been taken out, and allowed his men to proceed towards the fascist men guarding the essential building. To the fascists and the communists alike, it was a symbol of hope. To the Germans, as long as it was under Nazi control, and their government was upheld, they would succeed. To the Russians, when they conquered it, they will have conquered Germany. Both sides were fighting like tigers, but slowly, very slowly, Russia and his men were pushing their enemies further back and eventually, into the building itself.

Taking a rough aim, he shot the last visible man at the main entrance. For a moment, all was silent until the sounds of fighting from the streets around them broke through, and everyone took the moment of peace to reload. No German tried to fire on them, as they knew it would break their cover. Russia hazarded a guess that they would attempt to ambush his men as they entered the building. He scoffed, and with a clean patch on the glove of his left hand, wiped a piece of dirt out of his eye.

Out of the corner of his now unobstructed sight, he saw his men begin to move forward.

"Halt!"

The men froze, and turned to him hesitantly. They knew he was of some value to the superiors, and were wise enough to heed his demand.

"Comrades," he said as he turned his icy gaze to envelop all those who were listening. There were at least three dozen men, maybe more. "In this building, there will be many fascists. You have permission to kill every single one. Except two. Both will be wearing the uniform of Commanders, one with blond hair, one with grey. They will share company. You are not to harm them."

One of the men nearest to him frowned. "Comrade-"

His eyes snapped to the man, and he visibly shook. "You will not harm them. They are mine, and are the only reason I came here." Another eerie smile grew on his face. "You will take consolation in the fact that by the end of this war they will be in worse condition than all the men you have shot today."

Another man's eyes widened, and his rifle rattled in his hands. "B-but Comrade, the men we have shot, they are all-"

"Dead? Indeed."

He slammed open another door with his boot, and killed all four men with his handgun. His PPD-40 had gone missing two rooms back, and now he was down to a single bullet through the skull, as opposed to the several bullets through the chest. He suppressed a childish pout. Less blood.

A quick scan around the room revealed no nations, and he swung out of the cleared room again, his coat swirling in his momentum. He left the door open, a sign to his men that the room had been searched and emptied. The corridor was half dark and the only lights working flickered, but the light was enough to spy no enemies, and he turned his silent steps into long strides. Any attempt to keep his presence a secret was so pointless it was stupid. Besides - he grinned once again - he wanted them to know he was coming.

There was one more door on this floor, and then there was just the floor above. His anticipation was reaching critical.

He almost knocked, but resisted with flash of dark humour. Death was coming to call. He took a step back and kicked the door around the handle area. The fragile wood was no match for the personification of the SSSR forcing his full strength against it.

To his disappointment, only one soldier inhabited this room, and was dispatched so quickly it wasn't even fun anymore. His mind went off in a tangent suddenly as he wondered what his elder sister would think of his increasing boredom and anger. Probably leave the room, while herding everyone else out too. She seemed to do that a lot. He shrugged, mindless of the fact no one could see him.

Then he remembered his goal, and the infantile confusion slid off his face like chalk under water, morphing once again into the face of a man with everything to lose but more to gain - the face of a man who enjoyed the means with a sick enjoyment usually reserved for the end.

He went to reload his handgun, and stopped for a moment. Ah. Problem. No ammunition.

He shrugged again, threw away the useless weapon and unsheathed his knife; readying it in his hand. He spared no attention to the weapons of his enemies. He wouldn't lower himself.

With another look at the deceased man, he swept out of the room.

The hallway was silent, and the staircase lay behind him. His men waited impatiently at the bottom, ensuring no one could catch him from behind. This hallway was much more extravagant than the others, and one room remained at the end of the hall. The satisfaction in his chest was almost, almost enough. But not quite. He would only be complete when Germany and... Prussia lay under his dagger.

He began to take careful steps forward, wary of the silence, while deciding how he should do this. Needless to say they would be lying in wait for him, therefore they had the advantage. They would be expecting him to follow the pattern he had been following since he first entered the building. Bust the door, kill. However, Russia wondered if perhaps it was time to break his pseudo-tradition. A light hum escaped his vocal chords, and he pursed his lips in a conceited smile before nodding decisively. Alright.

Let's do this differently.

He went back to his previous spot, unhooked a grenade, pulled the pin and threw it casually towards the door around six metres down the hall. It rolled slowly, before tapping the door lightly as the wooden structure stopped it in its path. For an instant, the calm was palpable, the small device sitting innocently on the floor.

And then, the world exploded.

Russia braced himself against it, lifting his arm to cover his eyes. The rush of air left after a few moments, and hearing no gunfire, he began to walk slowly forward.

The journey towards the room seemed to take forever and he took in the after-effects. The walls, as well as the roof and the floor were scorched black. The wooden - he had suspected oak - door had been completely obliterated, and the remainder of the brass handle lay mangled to his right. His boots walked through the mild layer of ash at the epicentre of the blast as he peered obnoxiously into the damaged room. It had obviously been an office of some kind, but that had been ended. The chairs were smashed against the walls, and the desk seemed to have been flipped a few times before coming to rest on one end. Three random bodies lay scattered in various places, and as Russia scanned over their faces, a scowl emerged. What? How could they not be here! It simply wasn't possible; they couldn't be anywhere else! He had to have them! He had to have his blood! The pretty red that signified his dominance over them.

Just as he was about to throw his knife at one of the bodies - his need for the pretty red was beginning to hurt - a groan emerged from nearby. He froze, before turning slowly to his left. There. There.

Two other bodies lay haggard against the wall. Blood ran down both familiar faces and one stirred, groaning pathetically at the pain no doubt running through his veins. Hazy red eyes peaked out at his blurred surroundings, and the injured and tired man started in panic when pretty red connected with the colour of royalty.

He whimpered when a hysterical giggle reached his ringing ears.

Hey. A few of you guys might remember this story, as this is a repost. The first summary was terrible, and there were many spelling mistakes, so I've freshened it up and I'm putting it out there so people might actually show an interest this time.

This one, admittedly, is my baby, so any and all forms of feedback will be treated with respect and affection.

I really hope it gets some reviews this time, and you guys appreciate the effort I put into this! Oh, and is the rating appropriate? I wasn't sure.

(Don't you just adore Russia? He's my favourite ;-))

Really hope you review!