Just some silly fun.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
National Icon Declared Legally Dead
By Eduard von Bock
It is a time of great regret and reflection, our humble readers, for it has just been confirmed that the celebrated Russian-American archeologist, Ivan Braginski, aged thirty-five, declared missing by all accounts, and has just been pronounced legally dead this morning.
Mr. Braginski, who has been celebrated for his (by some miracle) successful Indiana Jones-esque methods of spelunking, donating dozens of his own artifacts to museums around the nation, and (most importantly) strong stance in keeping proper history taught in our education system, was last seen departing to India seven years ago, on a mission of "vital" importance. While many organizations at the time tried to pry this "vital" information from Mr. Braginski, he refused any form of interview. Which is just a fancy way of saying that no one has any real idea what could have happened to him.
"It's just a damned shame to lose someone so important to this great nation so early in his career," Government representative Alfred F. Jones commented, "And I'm telling you, we got some prize information of our end - my organization I mean - and we're not gonna stop for anything until we get him back. And that, my friend, is a promise!"
Time will only tell if said "organization" has any success in actually doing anything, but I (as well as the rest of the readers of my column, I am sure), are waiting to see how this turns out with bated breath.
Matthew reread the article out of force of habit, the newspaper clipping crumpled, stained, and ripped. Honestly speaking, there was no reason to read it - he'd just about memorized it, along with four other clippings on the same subject.
It had been five months. Five months since his brother Alfred had taken up some "super-secret" mission with no real purpose (he would know - Alfred had boasted about it incessantly). No plans to get back, no map, no real objective besides "bring Mr. Braginski back, and fuck all the consequences."
It was troubling to Matthew, really, that the government would even waste one man and supply him with whatever he asked for to look for some missing archeologist, of all things. It wasn't like this was a top-secret mission to rescue a scientist capable of curing AIDs, or securing the last of an endangered species, or saving the last reserves of maple trees in the world, or anything. Just some up-start idiot of an "adventurer" who just happened to have found, like, three "relevant" artifacts and donated them to science or something. Really. A fifteen year old kid sent to dig up things in the same area could do the same. Getting old rocks and stuff out of the ground was hardly a cause for celebration!
And yet, due to the course of these things, Matthew had been assured that he was the only loser who felt this way about the "great national icon" and was berated due to his "inability" to see his "importance" and "genius." He had wanted to reply (rather dryly, of course) to all of those nutjobs that he had the exact ability to see the "importance" in this "catastrophe" - that being that Americans had something to complain about and look forward to hearing more about in later months. Oh, and perhaps they would get their "happy ending" and invite the "great" man to a marvelous party that would be hosted by the biggest celebrity of the time - or maybe the President of the United States himself! And everyone would have a lot to talk about and the crippling realities of their own livers would be safely forgotten about for an entire year or so!
Of course such a reply would be simply dripping with sarcasm, and possibly lose him quite a few friends. So Matthew had always bitten his tongue, and imagined the possible outcomes of such a speech, his ultimate fantasy consisting of his personal genius being finally recognized, and maybe his friends liking him a bit more for his dry wit and impeccable insight.
Pah, fantasies.
Though, all of his inner bitching and moaning hadn't kept him from following the story. Not because he had any real attachment to some petty "prodigious" archeologist - no; he just wanted to keep his eyes and ears open for any news from his brother - any leads his twin might have been able to scrounge up - anything at all.
But no. Not even a phone call to him - hell, not even a phone call to their parents, who were both really starting to worry about him (which is saying quite a bit when one's Dad is nothing short of a perfect English gentleman with "no head for emotional affairs").
Five months was a long time to go without even a phone call from a sibling currently investigating in India.
And, if Matthew was being honest with himself here, he would have to say that he was supremely worried. For God's sake - India! - probably in the most dangerous areas, near the jungles, or the mountains or something. For all he knew, Alfred had come to the same grisly end Mr. Braginski probably had come to (Matthew's leading theory was that he had tried to befriend a few tigers, like a dumbass, and had ended up replaying the ending to Grizzly Man - only without the girlfriend with the frying pan).
There was always the chance - a rather small one, to Matthew's pessimistic mind - that Al was completely fine and just in an area without anything service, and was just as anxious to get back to them as they were to hear from him, but that sort of rational had all but died away at the three month mark.
And this entire thing was just making him downright jittery. Could hardly sleep, eat, or work at his job (sports broadcaster, thank you very much) without imagining that, while he was enjoying himself and having a good time with life, his brother was getting eaten alive by tigers or giant ants or whatever-the-fuck actually lived in India.
Thus, he was in his current position in life - sitting in the kitchen, re-reading some old, crusty, yellowed newspaper for the umpteenth time - searching for clues that weren't there. Anything to just give him a clue as to where he could be so he could at least feel a little better about the entire death thing. But no. "Top secret useless government mission" apparently meant "Hey, we're gonna send you off on a wild goose chase to catch one man out of millions in this country here. There's no real area that you're supposed to be looking in, oh, and don't phone your family. Cheers!" to "important" people with salaries that somehow clocked into six digits.
Matthew clucked his tongue in irritation, throwing the clippings aside with a promise to throw them all away the next time he was near a trash can (made thrice daily). He then made short work of dumping about four table spoons of maple syrup into his coffee, and was about to start sipping away in resigned irritation when...
It hit him.
Why should he have to stay at home, watch hockey games, complain about the state of politics and the economy, and have fun bitching to his (non-existent) friends? No! If his brother was in danger on a daily basis, he would do the same! And why not? If Al was, by all accounts, fine, and came back with about a million stories about him being a "hero," he'd at least like to have something to cover his ass to make it seem like his life was interesting. But how... but ho-
Of course! India!
He'd be the one to find that stupid archeologist - take the credit from Al (and more importantly) the incompetent American government! Yes! While he was at it, he'd save Al's ass too (hero his left buttock), and stay the pride of the family before Al could nab it from him.
You know, in best case scenarios. Most likely, he was just going to end up getting yelled at in some language he didn't understand, eat something people there considered sacred, and come home dirty, confused, and longing for a good session of hockey.
But hey - nothing ventured, nothing gained - right?
"So, allow me to get this straight,"
"Papa, you've said that three times now."
"And I still haven't wrapped my head around it, so give me that one, simple pleasure, if you would please!"
"Okay, but make it quick, alright?"
"What is with you and your speed thing? Have you any place to go? Is it so much to ask to just humor your poor, old Papa as he tries to keep his beloved son on the phone, speaking his own language - something I don't get around this house very often, I'll have you know - is it? Well, is it, Matthieu?"
Oh, great - there he goes.
"And you know what else, that's the problem with your two favorite sons leaving the nest - no offense to Peter, but, you know, he's in the I'm grown up because I've hit double digits stage and you know how much your dear papa can't stand that - and poor Arthur's troubled with headaches and pains and-"
"-Papa-"
"- all sorts of calamities, I can assure you, and it's just so much for one man to take the responsibility for! All day I'm cleaning up after a child, not getting calls from either of my grown sons, putting up aspirin runs for dear Arthur, massaging his aching b-"
"Tee em eye, Papa-!"
"Oh, and then you dare to use those ugly English acronyms made by some fourteen year old girl who had as much trouble spelling as you do at dialing the phone-"
"Papa, will you please-"
"Don't you use that tone of voice on your poor, unloved Papa, Matthieu - unless that's what you want! What, are you too grown up to talk with your Papa anymore?"
Matthew groaned, and finally decided to sit down and try to relax in his kitchen while he made an effort to pretend that he didn't have a plane to catch.
"And it's not that I would mind, Matthieu, if you were out doing something important-"
"Commentating on hockey is very important, Papa!"
"- like curing cancer, or finding a nice French girl to settle down with, or developing, oh, I don't know - a revolutionary device that will give terrible, anti-family sons the ability to call their papas from anywhere in the world!"
"Papa, it's called a mobile-"
"Oh! So its already been invented, has it? Well, I supposed dialing is a lot of work for lazy sons who would rather see their papas dead than ring them up! So how about you create a magical application on this so-called mobile that eliminates that nasty bit of finger work as well, ah?"
"Papa, that's speed dial-"
"Oooh! So technology has improved from my day - a day when we still cared about our parents and would trek fifteen miles in th-"
"-In the snow, up the hill, through hordes of rabid dogs-"
"Oh! So you do know my plight, then. So, dearest Matthieu, I suppose that leaves us this question: why haven't you visited since Christmas?"
Matthew sighed, resigned, and clinked his elbow up on the table as he poured himself a glass of wine.
Two hours and a long, messy phone call (in which he had to swear to call once every two days, forsake Beatles albums, and promise to marry a "nice French girl with countless frequent flier miles to visit your dear papa with") later, Matthew was behind one flight, drunk off his mind, and cursing himself for even bothering to call. Next time, he'd just write a nice, long, sincere email - and then show them both how to work the computer when he got back to prove that he had wrote to them.
The man shook his head, stood up, and stretched before tossing the (fourth) bottle of wine in the trash can, promising himself that he would water it down before calling next time (ha, as if he'd let there be a next time).
Well. Two hours later and he was exactly as he was before - with a plan, alright, but in no place to execute it. He'd be damned if he allowed himself to drive stone-cold drunk, not because he had any real reservations about his health - no; it just sounded exactly like something Alfred would do, and he had built a life around doing the opposite of what his brother did. Alfred liked peanut butter sandwiches? Oh - Matthew only ate Nutella. Alfred loved going to McDonald's and loading his body up on high fructose corn syrup? That was okay - except that Matthew didn't eat fast food, period, and real maple syrup and coke with actual sugar won out every time. Alfred loved football? Hockey, man, hockey! Alfred became a TEA-party activist? Great - because Matthew was attending the Rally to Restore Fear and Sanity and didn't want him tagging along, anyway.
So, simply because it was something Alfred wouldn't do, Matthew left his car keys on the kitchen table, and went to go call a cab. That'd show Alfred's spirit (who was hanging around, he was sure) how to be responsible and exactly not like himself.
His parents had made a point to talk about how ridiculous they both were - for they liked Matthew better, that was a given, but they still weren't sure who'd started the damn thing. And Matthew, being Matthew, was disinclined to inform them.
After thirty additional minutes of delay, Matthew was sitting in a cab with a rude Cuban driver (who, of course, he was actually rather fond of), listening to him curse out drivers, bitch about the quality of the air in this city, and invite him to ice cream socials.
He appreciated all of those comments, but had to turn down the social (to his immense regret - the Cuban knew of some really nice places with some of the best ice cream ever). What he didn't appreciate was the fact that his friend kept bringing up how often he got him and Alfred mixed up, but Matthew let it slide. He had bigger fish to fry - oh, and some plane tickets as well.
Right. Those. Had forgotten about the entire actually having to fly there part.
Ugh. Hopefully he'd get reimbursed for the flight he'd missed thanks to his French Papa. God. And they said Jewish mothers were terrible.
Matthew shook his head a little too quickly as he stepped out of the cab, paid his driver, and rushed into the airport. He waited in a fairly short line - grumbling all the way, of course - struggled to talk the lady at the desk into giving him replacement tickets. Lost this argument because she apparently hadn't had his name in the database and he was too shy to really demand that she look again. Sighed, and paid for an extra set of tickets to... hm.
Simply put, there were a lot of cities in India - something Matthew had not even thought of before getting out of the cab. Before he had just taken a flight to the capital, but now... but now...
Well, he supposed he'd like to live a little dangerously. Just pick a city because he fancied the sound of its name! Sure, it wasn't the smartest thing he could have done, but he had a pretty good feeling about Srinagar - capital of Kashmir (or something - they had states in India, something he didn't want to admit that he hadn't known). It was the title of his favorite Led Zeppelin song (yeah, take that Alfred - teach you for liking Stairway to Heaven), and he was perfectly willing to go to it on that hunch alone.
...Of course, his hunches had never amounted to much, but he wasn't going to let that get him down when he was starting on a huge heroic adventure to find his brother, restore a national icon, and win the approval of his Papa (who would probably just criticize him for his failure of finding a long-lost French icon, or something).
And with all that secured, his (minimal) luggage was checked in for boarding, and he was set to catch the nearest flight.
...In five hours.
You know, after you factor in the two hour long molestation party through the TSA.
Yet another issue he and Alfred spit nails over, and, as he was getting felt up by some overweight guy with rough manhands, a rather justified complaint.
Wooo, teaser/intro/whatever chapter done. ;;;
Just a silly little fic I've had in my head for quite some time. Kinda loosely based off of something, but I dunno if anyone's gonna catch it. At least - not yet.
First time writing a semi-serious (yahright) fic, so crit as necessary.
Probably playing everyone wildly OOC. Ffuuuuuu. Ahwell.
Nothing more to say! Hopefully the next chapters will pick up beyond "Matthew bitching about everything and everyone" and actually get to the plot. Thanks so much for reading to the end!
- Nommy