Author's note: Ok, so this is a my first Hetalia fanfic, so sorry for any errors, I really tried my best, but we all make mistakes.
Warning: no ships, rather is implied EveryonexEveryone. Sounds weird, but one of my headcanons is that the countries are very pan so instead of writing any romance, I'll just say, everyone has fucked each other at some point. To be bluntly honest.
Warning 2: Also, the plot of the story might be obvious from the beginning, so just bear with me, I just wanted a place where I could work more with the nation's background and relationships than another typical kidnapped! AU.
Warning 3: This a Sci-fi!/Human/Nations AU. It'll make sense as time goes on.
Disclaimer: Do not own, but if I did, APH America would be mine. Or it would be APH AmericaxEveryone. I am wayyyyy too invested in that boy.
PROLOGUE:
"This is the only solution I have for you guys."
"I don't know comrade, it is too dangerous. How are you sure that we would recover?"
"Indeed, how are you so sure that it will work, for all we know it might all be just a ruse to get rid of us!"
"Guys, think about it, we really have no other solution."
"I agree, it is all we can do."
"Then if this fails-"
"It won't. It can't."
"You know that you will be held accountable if this does fail."
"Then we have to make sure it doesn't."
"We still have time, maybe-"
"Even you know that we don't have the time. This is our only choice. We have to do this. Or else we're doomed."
I wake up with a start. Panting, I run my hand through my blonde hair. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and focus on calming myself down. Slowly regaining my breath, I try to remember what I had just dreamed, but the faces and voices start to fade. "Damnit!" That was the fifth time I saw that dream, and every time it left me with sweaty palms and scrunched up sheets. Something about it felt familiar, I just couldn't put my finger on it. But then again, I couldn't put my finger on many things relating to my memory.
My memory starts exactly 5 years ago, when I woke up in hospital with no recollection of anything except for my name, Alfred F. Jones, and these dreams that keep on plaguing me at night. Dreams that never make sense, always fading away before I could fully realize what I had seen. I only remember snippets of it, flashes of an innocent boy and fearless young man. Colors bled together, violet, green, blue, brown, all these different shades that belonged to different people. Allies, enemies, brothers, sisters, lovers, friends and family, it was all jumbled in these nonsensical dreams. I had long given up trying to untangle the messy threads of my supposed past. I may not know what had happened, but now I built up my life again, renting this small apartment and working as a police officer in a nearby station.
Shaking my head, I pull myself up from my warm bed and squint my eyes towards my alarm clock. 5:43 am. Way too early to be awake, but not enough time to fall back asleep. And it was a Monday morning. Cursing, I stand up and stumble my way to the bathroom.
Slam! My head hit the door. "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck." That was the second time this week. Groaning, I rub my hand on my head to check if I had any bumps as I open the door with my other hand. I stumble through the dark, and fumble around until I find the light switch and then turn on the lights. Stunned by the sudden brightness, I squint my eyes to adjust to the light, and amble my way towards the toilet to do my business. Finishing up, I face the mirror on top of the sink as I wash my hands. A man with dull blue eyes ringed by black circles and tousled blonde hair blinks back at me. I grimace at the sloppy image, and rub my face. Today was going to be looooong day.
I stretch out my arms as I walked out of my room, stumbling over the messy pile of clothes. "I really need to sort out my mess," I mutter to myself, and slowly start to pick up the discarded clothing.
"Dirty." I throw my boxer briefs to the ever growing pile to my right.
"Meh." I throw the yellow polo to the small pile of questionably clean clothes to my left.
"There you are!" I hug my bomber jacket and delicately put it on my bed. My bomber jacket was one of my favorite possessions, worn from use and love. It was the only other thing I had when I first woke up in that hospital room. I clung to on the hope that maybe, just maybe, it was a clue to my somewhat elusive past.
I pick up the random candy wrappers strewn all over the floor, and throw them into the overflowing trash bin. "I need to take out the trash too. And probably vacuum." I sneeze. "And definitely dust."
After sorting out some of the mess in my room, I huff and lay down on my unkempt bed. The tangled bedsheets smelled like sweat and exhaustion, but I couldn't get myself to changing them. Part due to sheer laziness, and part to due them being very comfortable. I turn my head towards the alarm clock again. 6:29 am.
Tick.
I look at the posters that cover the blank walls, clumsily taped on, paper wrinkled and frayed on the edges. Uncle Sam stared at me from across the room, with his finger pointed at me as if saying 'Get up boy, you have work to do!'. The Avengers were posed heroically over my cabinet, as if they were ready to charge into battle to clean up the remaining mess in my room. Nirvana was rocking out in the corner, as if ready to belt out some awesome tunes.
Tock.
The navy blue curtains billow as the cool D.C. air flows in. The window lets sunlight flood into the room, highlighting the dust mites that seem to be dancing midair. The room basks in warm glow, and time seems to slow down. I close my eyes.
Tick.
I open my eyes again and look up. I watch as the ceiling fan goes in lazy circles. Once. Twice. Thrice. I count the cracks on the ceiling. One. Two. Twenty-Three.
Tock.
6:30 am. I get up again, shove on my glasses, and pick out random clothes from the questionably clean pile and get ready for the day.
Shrugging on my bomber jacket, I walk out of my apartment and lock the door behind me. Turning around, I see my neighbor, Ms. Fujimoto, limping her way with her grandson, Akio, in tow towards the elevator.
Ms. Fujimoto was a nice old lady, a bit on the short side and her gray hair always in a bun. She was always baking me chocolate chip cookies and bringing them over to my apartment. Her motherly smile and wise brown eyes were always a comfort, and she was always ready to hear any of my concerns.
Akio was the total opposite. A master prankster at only age six, his impish grin and mischievous demeanor always resulted in him in getting into some form of trouble. He was short kid like his Obaa-san, always pouting whenever I patted his spiky black hair. Apparently, I always ruined his cool Dragon-ball Z look that he worked so hard to do with hair gel. He never failed to make me laugh on a bad day.
Painting a smile onto my face, I wave at Ms. Fujimoto and Akio.
"Good morning Alfred!" she calls out.
"MORNING ALFIE!" Akio yells.
"Morning to you guys too! How is your leg today, Ms. Fujimoto?" I call back.
"How many times to have tell you to just call Akako? Ms. Fujimoto makes me sound old,"
"But Obaa-san, you are old!"
A genuine smile cracks out, and I grin at the odd pair.
"Oh hush Akio! My leg is just fine yesterday, but my poor knee started to ache awhile ago. I think a huge storm might come soon,"
"Aww, I was hoping for sunny day! There have been lots of storms lately,"
"I believe that this is going to be a big one. Take care of yourself, ok? Tell your boss to let you come home early. That man overworks you anyway,"
"Thanks for the warning, I'll try to come back home before the storm hits! Bye guys!"
"Bye Alfred!"
"BYE ALFIE!"
I head towards the stairs and run down the steps. I lived on the 10th floor, so it was a nice run down. It helped me get my blood pumping and ready for the day. Finally reaching the bottom of the steps, I come out to the lobby.
"Hey there Ms. Abbott!" I call out to the front desk secretary. She was the new secretary, only starting a couple days ago. She was a pretty little thing, with coffee-colored skin and chocolate eyes, her curly hair always tamed in a ponytail. The old secretary, Ms. Ackerman, got into a serious car accident, and so Ms. Abbott took her place.
"Hello, Mr. Jones!" she called back.
"How is the new job treating ya?"
"Quite fine, if I say so myself,"
"Good to hear that!"
"Be careful by the way. I heard that there was a storm coming,"
"Yeah, I heard. I gotta go before I'm late for work. Bye!"
"See you!"
Emerging outside of the apartment complex, I whistle my way down the street, walking towards the parking lot. I pass by several of my busy neighbors, and exchange greetings and how-are-yous. After some conversation, I reach my ride.
Tony, my motorcycle, was my pride and joy. It was a dashing Harley-Davidson motorcycle, a cost me a shit ton of money just to fix up this beauty. It was chrome silver with red accents, a bit unusual for a motorcycle's coloring, but it was the result of a few too many Budweiser's and car spray paint. I found Tony in some old junkyard, rusty and missing some parts. I took it a nearby friend's garage and fixed it up after buying a few spare parts. Took me awhile, but it was worth it in the end.
"Hey there Tony," I say, as I put on my helmet on my head. I straddle my motorcycle, and start up my motorcycle. "Ready to go?"
I zoom out onto the busy D.C. streets, leaving behind all my worries. I just focus on the thrill of the feeling the wind against my face and the sun beating down my back.
Well, I would if it weren't for the D.C. traffic. Damnit.
I finally pull up to the Washington D.C. police station, and park my motorcycle in our designated parking lot. I walk out of the parking lot and onto the sidewalk. As I pass by, I see a busker belting out something that seemed like garbled rendition of Lady Gaga's "Poker Face" while strumming a guitar. While I wasn't exactly sure what was going on, I throw a few dollar bills in his guitar case. He tips his hat in thanks.
I walk into the police station, exchange more greetings with my coworkers. After some back slapping and exchange of wild weekend stories, I shrug off my bomber jacket and go down to place it in my locker. I take out my city-issued uniform, quickly go and change, not wanting to be late again. I walk out and wave at some of the people typing away at the desks, and make my way towards my boss's office.
My boss, Mr. George Wilkins, was a big man, with an even bigger beard. He was the head of our police branch, overseeing who goes where and who does what. Since, I was still partnerless (my last partner was currently on her maternity leave) I reported to him alone.
"Alfred, my boy," he says with a booming voice, "Looks like you actually made it in time for once,"
"I try boss-man," I reply with a grin, "Any special case for me today?"
"None so far," he says back with sad smile, "Sorry kid, but it looks like that you are out of luck today too,"
"Awww man! So paperwork and patrols again?"
"Seems like,"
"Well, consider it done sir!"
Mr. Wilkins grins and pats my back. "That's what I like to hear, kid,"
I grin back and shuffle my way to my designated desk. It's been awhile since I had a real case. I missed the thrill and action of actually doing something. These days, it seemed like all I did was read and sign official papers or patrol the city for nonexistent criminals. And talking about papers, there were already several stacks of paperwork that I had to fill that day. And I probably would have to go on patrol in a few hours. It wasn't that I wanted to promote any crime-doing, but waiting on my ass all day long is no fun. I look at the clock hanging on the side wall. 7:34 am. Really, today was going to be a loooooong day.
Taking a deep breath, I resign myself to another day of boring paperwork, as I click my pen and start filling the papers.
After a multiple stacks of paperwork are done, and my eyes successfully glazed over, I look up to see the clock. 12:04 am. "Shit, it's lunchtime!" I quickly stand up and go down to my locker. After putting on my bomber jacket again, I shove my wallet and my phone into my pocket and quickly jog out, ready for some fresh air and food.
I look up to see the sky was still clear. "It seems like it's not raining anytime soon." I whistle down the street, walking down to look for the nearest restaurant. "Aaaah, I'm so hungry," As if on cue, my stomach grumbles. "I better get some food quick." But before I could even walk in anywhere farther, my phone starts blaring 'Party in the USA'. "Shit, shit, shit, shit," I fumble with my phone before I can pick up the phone.
"What the fuck Nico, when did you change my ringtone?" I growl into the phone.
"What you don't like it?" Nico teases me, "I thought it suited you perfectly fine,"
Nico was one of my closest friends. We met at a local bar, complete strangers and completely wasted, and we instantly hit off. His family owned an Italian restaurant, La Famiglia, where he worked during the weekdays as one of the chefs. I often went there to chat with him and mooch off his food for free.
"Whatever, why did you call dude? You know it's lunchtime, and I am starving,"
Nico chuckles, "You are always thinking about food aren't you,"
I roll my eyes, "What did you want?"
"Ok, ok calm your jets. I just wanted to invite you to supper at Mama's house tomorrow night. It's Papa's birthday tomorrow, so Mama told me to invite you."
I grin. Mrs. Abbatelli was an absolute mother hen, always trying to get me to eat because I was "too thin" in her standards, and honestly, I never complained. Her food was amazing too, which was always a plus.
"Aww man, that sounds awesome! Do I need to bring something?"
"Probably bring some of that expensive wine shit- Ow Mama that hurt, sì, sì- you don't need to bring anything,"
I chuckle, "Mama's boy, eh?"
"Oh shut up Al, as if you are any better."
"True that. Anyway tell Mrs. Abbatelli I'd love to come, and ask her if she needs some help before the party?"
"She says that it would be lovely if you could help,"
"Well thanks for inviting me, but I am really hungry, so I gotta go. Ciao!"
"Ciao!"
I shake my head as I pocket my phone and continue my way down the sidewalk.
After lunch and dinner, some more paperwork, and a relatively easy patrol, I look up at the clock once more. 7: 39 pm. My shift was over a few minutes ago, but I linger to finish signing some more documents. After submitting in my documents and my patrol report, I walk down to the lockers once again. There, I shrug on my bomber jacket and head on outside.
A few stray droplets hit my head, and I look up to see the threatening clouds just on the horizon. I quickly make my way to Tony, praying that I could make it home before the real storm began. But as I approach my motorcycle, I notice a group of people wearing strange white uniforms standing in front of it. Walking closer, I notice that one of the people standing there was Ms. Abbott. Except she was not wearing her usual business suit, rather she was in the same weird white uniform.
"Um, may I ask why you guys are standing in front of my motorcycle? And um, Ms. Abbott, what are you doing here?"
Instead of responding, Ms. Abbott turns to one of the other people and says, "That's him, ma'am." The lady who seems to be the leader of the group just nods at one of the men. He steps forward towards me.
"Woah, woah, can someone please explain what is going on? Why are you guys here? What do you want from me?"
And like the beginning of every typical dystopian story, all he says is, "Mr. Jones, you're coming with us." Really. That explains sooo much. And then I all I see is black.
Author's note: So that was it! If you found any error, feel free to tell me! Also, if you want to criticize, feel free to do so, but please constructive criticism. Not "Oh your story is horrible, take it off!" That doesn't help me be a better writer. And if there any inaccuracies regarding police work or anything, please let me know. Other than please Fav/Follow/Review ^.^
- acrazyfangirl4