A/N: Hello, peoples behind the fourth wall~!
Before I think of continuing my other fan fiction in this same crossover category called "Worldly Connections" about the nations being indirectly involved with the Cahills or my other pending 39 Clues fan fictions, I decided to make a fanfic from an idea when I read "A King's Ransom" while watching a rerun of my favourite Hetalia episodes, starting from the very first episode.
Actually, this takes place in "A King's Ransom" during the middle part of the book.
Also, I'm gonna hint some of my (currently) favourite pairings, though there will be no indicated romance between them. You might or might not know what pairings I'm talking about, so please do not maim me if you do figure some of them out or mistaken them for something else.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything you've seen or heard on any form of media.
Chapter 1
Basel, Switzerland
A small alarm beeped a few times in the background, causing a nation to stir in his sleep, only to stop in a manner of seconds. Light streamed through the curtains, landing on the man's closed eyelids. The glare made them flutter open in a lethargic fashion. A hand reached out for a pair of glasses on the bedside table as its owner groggily sat up on his luxurious hotel bed, jamming the bridge between his eyes after blinking a few times.
Dragging his limbs and feet lazily out of bed, blue irises squinted at the penetrating sunny rays from the outside. With the curtains in arms reach, he spread them wide open. The dim room was illuminated in a heartbeat.
"Man," he groaned, scratching his blond hair in frustration, "I'm still in Switzy's place."
Though after remembering the important detail why he's still here for the past two weeks and quick glance at the digital clock on the table, he forced his foot into his brown pants while fixing his dark red tie. In record time, he was dressed as any old bored business man out there in the world, with the exception of his young-looking energetic face.
Feeling the weight of future punishments (and obvious arguing) for being late, he rushed out of his bedroom suite and called for his brother.
"Yo, Canada," he yelled out. "I'm going to be late for another meet—"
He caught sight of a plate stacked with pancakes and maple syrup, topped with the Canadian flag, on the dining table. There, under the fork, was a note. It said:
You're late. Here're some pancakes if you want some when you wake up. I'll be covering for you until you get to the conference. You owe me another favour or, better yet, ACTUALLY WAKE UP ON TIME!
Love your brother, Canada
A sigh escaped his lips. He wasn't sure why he woke up at this hour either. He knows he always wakes up in time, since he was the hero . . .
Though he's sometimes arrives late, but that's another thing.
After minutes of debating whether he should just go back to bed and sleep for the rest of the day since he's already tardy or go to the meeting, he checked his wrist watch, letting out another sigh having a tinge of exasperation. "Oh, well! Better late than ever . . ."
After pocketing the room keys and grabbing a sticky cold pancake, the personification of America, also referred to his human name as Alfred F. Jones, left the hotel building with his legs pumping and his cowlick hair called Nantucket flowing through the wind.
However, he forgot to lock the room door.
He burst through the double doors and was suddenly greeted by a soft click and a bright flash. All the nations present in the room laughed their asses off to their hearts content while America's friend lowered his camera with a small sheepish smile plastered on his face.
"Gomennasai, Amerika-san," said Japan, his head tipping forward to bow. "Your brother wanted to record how you would act to the simple prank he has done in your bedroom."
The super-powered nation raised a confused eyebrow. "What are you talking about? Aren't I late?"
England chuckled, "Idiot, what's-his-name changed your alarm while you were sleeping so you'd wake up 2 hours early." He folded his arms and propped his feet on the table with pleasure, placing his Sherlock-Holmes look, saying in a contemptuous tone, "And it worked too, judging from how you buttoned your suit, untidier-than-usual hair and the maple syrup on the cheek indicating you rushed your dressing and breakfast. Not that it was difficult to trick you, by my years of observation in raising you. You could sleep through a demolition derby (save for your national anthem set in your alarm), and your brother is practically invisible to you."
"Though I must say that I am very disappointed on how hypocritical l'Angleterre is in remembering certain things, I have to agree," France piped up, sipping some wine beside his friend/enemy in a very flamboyant fashion. "He's just over there, mon ami. See for yourself, mais franchement, je m'en doute. He's still invisible to your eyes."
America whipped his head to his side to find Canada, with his bear Kumajiro wrapped around his arms, sitting down and staring out on an open window sill that viewed to a peaceful garden. His furious brother marched right up to him.
"Hey, dude, what's gives?" he asked, fist poised on his hips and lips forming a pout. There was a gleam at the corner of his glasses as Canada turned his attention to him. "Messing with my alarm. Curtains not fully closed. And no bacon with my breakfast! Not cool, man."
"Sorry, bro," the purple-eyed lookalike man apologized with a shrug, very nonchalantly. "This is partially an act of revenge for being mistaken by you for so many years. It's a small since I've forgiven you already, but it gets annoying when it's brought up from time to time, you know."
"Oh," his neighbour breathed, realizing what he meant. He scratched the side of his blushing cheeks, trying to look away from his twin's concentrated gaze. ". . . I'm . . . sorry, too. You know . . . I am, really."
Japan took a cue and snapped the scene into his digital camera's memory forever. No one seemed to mind. It actually helped as a distraction for America from the looks he is getting from other countries.
Canada nodded and gave a faint smile, which made America feel guiltier. Yes, even though they were neighbours and brothers, he often forgets Canada's existence. And when he does get noticed, they assume he is his burger-loving brother and start hostile towards him.
Now that America thought of it, he was glad that Canada made some revenge on him. However, thinking back on his words . . .
"Wait, what do you mean by partially?"
Canada looked over to the whispering Italian representatives at the end of the table. "The other G20 members have been trying to cheer up Veneziano and Romano from what happened, but so far, nothing is working."
America tilted his head with a sour expression. "Oh, yeah. The pasta dudes are the whole reason we're 'cuz they're still upset about the Garbaggio thing . . ."
A chair's feet scratched pavement as Romano stood up, hands slammed down forcefully on the police reports in front of him that it sent some flying through the air.
"Caravaggio, you fat bastard!" the Southern part of Italy yelled in anger. "NOT GARBAGGIO, CARAVAGGIO!"
"Fratello," Veneziano coaxed, tugging the arm. "Please, calma."
"Don't tell me to calm down," Romano said, slapping North Italy's hand away from his shirt sleeve and pointing at the North America Brothers. "That other bastard, whoever he is, thinks this little time confusion was going to cheer us up. It's too early in the morning! We should be still sleeping right now."
The representative of Spain came from behind and pulled Romano into a tight hug and, despite the curses, cooed closely to his face to make him feel better. "Don't get mad at them for trying, mi pequeño tomate."
America snickered as the bottom half of the Italian nation struggled against the Spanish Armada. And as if his former guardian read his mind, the British man shook his head with the ends of his lips twitching to move up to meet his green eyes.
A bullet ripped through the noise, making all of their attention turned to a very angry guy holding a very dangerous riffle with one hand and protecting a small lady with the other.
"Will you all just SHUT UP? You are in my place, so at least give some respect or I'll shoot you all." Seeing everyone (except Russia) was scared half to death by that shot, he lowered his weapon for a moment to inhale a huge gulp of oxygen, and then he glared at the first person he sees.
This was something, from America's point of view, very regretful to him.
"Since you've momentarily neutralized the chaos, that I must thank you," Austria said coolly, his gaze only directed at his papers, somehow making Switzerland even more frustrated, "this would be a good time to finally report our findings for the connection between the crime of the century in Florence and the so-called accusation for the stolen Il Milione in Rome that is now being investigated by Interpol."
The aristocratic country gave his papers to the methodical man in the middle of him and Veneziano and the man took it as a cue to stand up. Clearing his throat and half-staring at his clingy companion on his left, Germany was about to lay out the facts.
America took a seat in the table between Canada and England, which was always reserved for him, while the slightly gruff voice filled the room. Everyone was strangely silent as one of the current German representatives talked, a thing something totally understandable for the younger nation. These thefts are directed from very powerful people that involved the nations for more than 500 years, more so two years ago.
Now, he feels, the final battle is coming soon.
Placing his hands behind his back, the serious blue-eyed man stated, "The report confirms that these two Cahills, Amelia and Daniel, are within the vicinity of this area. And their unusual activity nearby the locations might be linked to the crime, but we can't be certain."
The still-outraged Italian exclaimed, "Might be? Sul serio, potato bastardo? Ladros, they are! And they're crimes, two to be exact so change the music bastard's report." Romano crossed his arms. "Well, cosa diavolo aspetti?"
Germany gave a steely stare, which was happily returned with a countered death glare. "How would we know, Romano? They're just kinder, ja."
A small laugh was heard from the back of the room and America turned to find a half-asleep albino at the corner by the door.
"Bruder, have you forgotten . . . the great Clue Hunt held two years ago?" He yawned, rubbing his red eyes in attempt to stay awake. "They're not just kinder. They're Cahills, for crying out loud. Madrigals, even . . ."
Yes, all the nations in the room knew what the Cahills were capable of. But even America didn't know the full potential on the people they were up against, even when they saw with their own eyes the mayhem that family has cause for some stupid hints to great power.
The small yellow bird on top of his head chirped loudly at him, making him raise an eyebrow. "Don't we have some kind of alliance . . . with their branch? That's what the awesome Gilbird says."*
Germany nodded, only slightly. "Ja, we did. Although, it was a onetime deal between us and it was on behalf of their actions for trying to prevent the Clues from falling into the wrong hands. Plus, they improved the system in the United Nations." He groaned as the countries looked at each other and questioned if there was any improvement in the meetings.
"But we can't get any good information from them since the end of the Hunt," England continued after Germany, crossing his arms in dismay, "which I was jolly good for me, thinking that the imprisonment of the Kabra woman (never liked her in the first place) for murder was the end to all this madness. Though sending her to New York is not much of a punishment." He glared at America before the gentleman added, "Alas . . ." while sipping his Earl Grey tea.
"So, the question is," Russia spoke, a blank smile on his face, "what are they doing here in Europe?"
Glance and shrugs were passed around. Now, because the Madrigals united the other branches, the Cahills were more secretive than ever and only pieces data can slip out from local news.
"Let's review then, aru," China suggested, lifting his own papers. "In Boston, men in a fuel truck stopped their school bus and attacked, possibly attempted to kidnap them. Not much in this source. Just kids endangered and possible loss of money from the school system." He gave a look directed at America which the said nation cannot decipher.
Veneziano continued, slightly smiling when he read the fine print. "Then, they suddenly dropped out of school and headed for Florence to steal a priceless painting from the Uffi—"
"We don't know if that's true," Germany prudently cut in.
"È vero, Germany!" North Italy cried, his older brother glaring over the younger's shoulder. "They were there and they left three ugly copies, expecting us Italians to think that one of them is the true beauty of the 'Medusa' by the great Caravaggio."
"Well, I wouldn't say it was a beauty," America muttered to Canada, hoping that they wouldn't hear.
But of course, they did.
"Do you have something to say, idiota?" Romano's fiery brown eyes transferred to the American's lively blue ones. "They're your citizens, after all. Why don't you tell us what this is all about? Why is there another American who claimed to the authorities that those kids also stolen the Il Milione, which hasn't been seen since the time of Marco Polo himself?"
All the attention went to America. He didn't know what to say, so he answered on reflex.
And that method always worked. Most of the time.
"Maybe they were influenced," he hesitantly answered, handling his documents to pretend he was reading, "by, you know, some powerful dude or something, to do all those stuff. Like in my awesome movies, that's been ranking up the hottest blockbuster charts for the past year!"
The looks on the nations' pondering expressions were obscured by amused looks, especially England. No one would admit openly that America's theory had a strong chance of being true, with the course of events for the past weeks, and the obvious signs shown currently, learned from experience; or it'll make the arrogant country's head even bigger.
So, they just took it in a very hesitant consideration. America frowned at that.
Germany cleared his throat after passing shrugs, not meeting anyone's eyes at the moment, as he stood up. "Well, if that is all, dismissed! Come back after lunch. Get some rest, eat, and just get on with your lives."
The nations immediately dispersed from the meeting table before the young nation had to say anything in his part on their consideration. Everyone was too tired for waking up that early to say anything else anyway. The Italians, still grief-stricken, were invited by France, Spain, and Prussia to France's new restaurant nearby to carry on their goal on cheering them up. The two reluctantly agreed, resulting to most of the countries to tag along as well.
Someone tapped the observing nation's shoulder and America turned to see his friends (England, Canada, and Japan) waiting for him to stand from his seat.
"Joining us to this new restaurant, Yankee?" England probed, muttering something in the lines of 'the bloody frog better treat us since he's the one who is inviting' with his nose turned up oh-so proudly.
Being his favourite person to annoy (purposely), America flashed a Hollywood grin while folding his arms behind his chair and leaning back playfully. "Nah, I'll just wait here for the others. You go run along and prepare for your breakfast with the perverts."
"Gladly," said the former empire, quickly turning back on his old colony to the exit after hastily adding, "but not about the perverts. Just the breakfast." The green-eyed man gestured the other two to follow him out but he was already gone by the time Japan even moved.
"Are you not hungry and sleepy, Amerika-san?" asked the Asian man straight forwardly, glancing between his wristwatch and what-his-face, standing quietly behind him. "It is 7:42 and you have a very big appetite."
America chuckled, stood up to grasp the two men's shoulders, and turned to Japan. "You know me too well, ya great samurai."
"He's serious, America," his brother whispered forcefully, his purple gaze focused on the tallest man in the room. "Aren't you going to eat, eh?"
His hands dropped to his sides, saying, "It's okay. I ate some of your pancakes you left on the table. Nice cooking, by the way . . . Mattie!" Then he flashed a thumb, grinning ear-to-ear.
The Canadian and Japanese were still not sure about that answer, but they both nodded their heads and walked away, leaving Alfred to his thoughts.
When he heard the slam of the door, he immediately slumped down on his chair and stared at the ceiling. Of course he would do that, 'cause he has no particular thing to do. Except for the party to cheer up the Italian brothers, but he's not really in the mood to party this early.
His stomach grumbled dangerously.
Then again, food could be an excellent motive to join the others.
He shook his head to forget the idea and decided to just to a nearby McDonald's instead. After closing all the lights and doors with a brief farewell to the people running the office building, he was out the building and on the streets.
A/N: Well, there you go. My first chapter.
Thank you for reviewing. I'll be updating the second one in a few.
* referring to my other fanfic Wordly Connections
The foreign words that I used . . . try to translate them~
(/ ;^v^)/
