Warnings: Angst, ideologically sensitive material, violence, and... more warnings to come in the future.
~~~ Chapter 1 : Stable ~~~
Name: Ivan Braginski
Nationality: Russian
Home: Located in Moscow
Eyes: Amethyst
Hair: Platinum blonde
Complexion: Pale
Height: 180 cm
Family: Katyusha Braginskaya, Natalia Arlovskaya.
Friends/Associates/Acquaintances: Raivis Galante, Toris Lorinaitis, Eduard bon Bock, Felikz Lukasiewicz, Yao Wang, Gilbert Beilschmidt, Honda Kiku, Feliciano Vargas, Lovino Vargas, Francis Bonnefeur, Arthur Kirkland, Tino Vainamoinen, Berwald Oxentierna, Alfred F. Jones.
The violet-eyed Russia read the manila folder with his name printed on it. A single year-old image attached by paperclip. "Oh, Toris, I did not know you cared so much, da?" The Russia closed the manila folder and grabbed a lead pipe that lie on a nearby table. "I-I'm sorry, I-" The pipe connected with a sharp crack against sensitive flesh, sending waves of pain through the Lithuanian's thin body. The Russian tossed the folder into the fire, taking care to aim it toward the heart of the fire. He turned to kick the groveling Lithuanian, but paused, as the man was still doubled over and clutching his sides. Ivan snatched the Lithuanian painfully by his hair. In a deadly soft voice, he spoke, "Be a good boy, Toris, and don't give Mother anymore problems, da?" In reply, Toris weakly began to speak, but coughed up blood on the Russian's face. Ivan carelessly threw him against the wall and left the room, wiping his face and pipe free of blood on his coat.
As he walked toward his study, he caught the stares of Eduard and Raivis. Ivan waved to them with a twisted sweet smile and entered his bathroom. Alone at last, he took off his coat, laying it haphazardly on a towel rack. Underneath the bulky material, he didn't wear a shirt. Instead layers and layers of soiled bandages wrapped his width. Pulling a small blade from his pocket, he sheared the bandages off. Wounds, both old and new, criss-crossed his body in an almost uniform pattern. Most stopped bleeding; he couldn't feel anything, anyway. He's never felt anything. All of it was fake, anyway. The smiles, the kindness, the joy, and the happiness. All that was real was violence, pain, suffering, fear, and hate.
Sheer hate.
He sweetly smiled at the thought of the 'friends' that the burned list had mentioned. It lied. He had no friends. Ivan ran the sharp edge of the knife lightly along his rib. If anything, the beads of red liquid dripping down his flesh proved two things: His heart still beat and he could still bleed. This unholy and unsanitary practice began when Eduard had dared to question him about taking an odd amount of bandages everyday. Of course the Estonian's question was responded to with force, but not enough to break him. That was just for questioning him.
"Yo! The Awesomeness has arrived!" A Prussian burst through the door of the room, heading straight for the bathroom. Ivan, being jerked back to the present, put on his coat quickly and picked up his pipe. He felt interrupted and annoyed. "Hey Iv-" The Prussian found himself suddenly slammed against the wall, being held there by a pipe at his throat. "You will enter quietly." Ivan's voice whispered, deadly serious. "Wh-" Gilbert started, but the Russian wouldn't have that. He pressed the pipe harder against Gilbert's windpipe, causing the Prussian to gasp for air. "You will obey Mother, da?" Ivan gave him a contemptuous smile. Gilbert managed to nod, shaking in fear. "Get to work." Ivan released Gilbert who slid down the wall, nursing his throat, and watched Ivan walk away, terrified.
When Ivan turned into another hallway, Eduard and Raivis ran to Gilbert's aid, helping him up. "A-Are you okay?" Raivis questioned in a trembling voice. "Urk- yeah..." Gilbert wheezed, taking slow breaths. "Best get to work." Eduard adjusted his glasses, seemingly unemotional. Gilbert and Raivis nodded, the three going their separate ways.
Ivan took out a bottle of vodka and sat on a bench. As he opened the bottle, a heavy gust of wind wrapped itself into a miniature whirlwind of snow and ice beside him. A tall, aging Russian emerged from the spiraling storm. He fixed an icy stare on Ivan, his skin nearly blue; possibly frostbitten. His hair was as white as the snow itself, and he stepped closer to the sitting Russian.
"I am very sorry." The man's voice whispered, as though it were a made of the wind. "About what, General Winter?" Ivan took a deep drink from the bottle. General Winter looked at the frozen landscape covered in snow, "Your garden-" "It is fine." Ivan cut him off, looking into the horizon longingly.
As he imagined the land covered with tall stalks of sunflowers bathing in the warm golden sun, the general nodded and stiffened. His features soon became chalky and fell apart into little flakes of snow, as he was swept away with the wind once more.