Hi there! This is my first fanfic, so please excuse any trouble I have with this thing.
Anyway, I don't Hetalia, so yeah.
Ivan admired everything about a radio.
It could be used to order a single command that would lead to the deaths of thousands, or release the sweet, clear sound of war time music. The crackly voice heard from behind the speakers informed wives and children that their husbands and fathers had not survived the trek, but they had a good run. They served their country and were a valued life between the start and end warfare. Oh, what lies. This battle couldn't be avoided—it was inevitable, they said. Humans are creatures of habit. They bow down to the ways of old, never bothering to cut the strings from the cross, wooden stick that keeps them tied. Until then, they will be puppets, moving and dancing about in a way that pleases only the leaders. The cruel, heartless men with the world at their fingertips. Ivan was one of those men.
He knew this. His lips quirked up in an amused smirk at the thought. The woman and children would weep, but be comforted by the empty statement that claimed their loved ones played a part in this madness. Well, yes, they had played a part. Even if all it was turned out to be adding to the constantly rising number of casualties. They played the part no one else wanted to perform when they auditioned. Maybe we should be lucky humans are such blind followers. Perhaps the phrase 'learn from your mistakes' might finally sink in. We have learned the hard way that these petty wars only result in meadows morphing from lively green to a dull yet aching red as bits and pieces of debris are carried through the air by wind turned black from smoke.
Ivan didn't mind it. Let mankind be mankind—be that destroyers or saviors. He was thankful for the radio. If he found the right station, he would be content to sit by the window and let his vision blur along with his thoughts, letting the two wander wherever they pleased. And as one of those lovely, hopeful songs sounded through the air, he felt an emotion well up inside of him. One that had not resurfaced for a long time.
When they sound the last all clear
How happy, my darling, we'll be
When they turn up the lights
And the dark lonely nights
Are only a memory
Anger coursed through his veins at the words. They were wrong. They were lying. Who ever said that the Last All Clear would be the end of it? No, it would just be the start; a period of time to rest before the real horrors began. Ivan narrowed his eyes. He did not like lies. They were excuses.
Never more we'll be apart
Always together sweetheart
For the peace bells will ring
And the whole world will sing
When they sound the last all cl—
Ivan would not allow this to continue. He looked down to find the radio in his hands. Who submit him to listen to these foolish words that were not meant for his ears? Ivan threw the radio across the room, his lips turning down in disgust as the plastic splintered into pieces after hitting the wall of his bedroom with a loud thud. Sighing, he grabbed a coat from the closet in the corner and quickly slipped it over his loose white shirt, relishing its beige color. After buttoning it down the middle, he pulled on a pair of worn, knee high brown leather boots, tucking his black pants into the crevices in between the skin and shoes. Not that it mattered—while it did fan out ever so slightly towards the bottom, the warm coat reached below his knees, almost touching the floor. Finally, he snatched his favorite light pink scarf and left the room.
Today was special. Ivan would have to ask his staff to be very mindful of their actions. Losing the game after he'd just set up the pieces would be rather disappointing. He had moved first, now it was time for his opponent to challenge him. The fun had just started, yes, but every roll of the die that signaled a piece would be placed elsewhere was noteworthy. He used to enjoy chess, but that had changed long ago. To win, Ivan knew he would have to gamble eventually, but that was okay. He loved to gamble—especially when he knew he'd be triumphant in the end. This game would be different and Ivan was anticipating a grand event. After all, his adversary in this particular match had shown signs of creditable decisions. Ivan was excited to this mystery man, this Alfred F. Jones, and today was the day they would be introduced.
After descending the stairs with almost unnatural grace, he started for the kitchen, where he expected most of his staff would be, but stopped short when he spotted a figure standing nervously in the waiting room.
As he looked at the young boy standing before him, Ivan walked towards him with two greedy eyes, practically engulfing the existence of the poor boy. He couldn't have been more than fifteen years old, with brown hair and wonderful green eyes. Looking closer, Ivan was intrigued to find that, closer to his pupils, that green color was dulled to a soft blue hue. Ivan didn't stop the sinister smile that stretched across his skin at the sight of this pretty creature. He wanted him. He wanted him very much. The only disappointment was finding the ever-present subdued look in his eyes—at the same time, it was a pleasant site.
"What is your name, child?" Ivan purred. "Why are you here?"
The boy's chest rose and fell quickly. "I-I came with the Jones company, sir." He shifted uncertainly, fear causing his lower lip to tremble.
Ivan hummed thoughtfully. "Ah, I see." He stepped closer, towering over him, the gap between the two now so small they were breathing each other's air. "Your name, little one?"
"Toris." At his name, the servant boy lifted his head higher and his eyes flashed with pride. "Toris Laurinaitis."
"Well," Ivan murmured with a cruel smile, "I would like to keep you."
Toris's breath hitched. "S-sir, I b-belong to Mr. Alfred Jones."
Ivan merely shrugged. "I think we can work something out. You are only a possession, after all." Seeing Torrance flinch encouraged him to push further. "That must not be very nice," he casually looked at his nails, "having to introduce yourself as a thing. Tell me, how is it a pretty little boy like you ended up here of all pl—"
"That's enough. Please remove yourself from him." The words were polite but stern, more demand than a question.
Ivan ignored the urge to kill the sudden interruption and turned his head to the side so that he could see the culprit.
Five feet away stood a beautiful woman with dirty blonde, shoulder-length hair, a red clip on each side of her head, and sparkling azure eyes. She wore a flowing, topless blue dress that fit snugly against her curves. Her tall white heels allowed her to stand at Ivan's chin, but he suspected she would look much smaller and less confident without them.
She spoke again and fearlessly looked him straight in the eye. "Mr. Alfred awaits you in the room you requested, however he insists the discussion take place with you and him only." She walked forward and put a firm, almost protective hand on Toris's shoulder, to which he visibly relaxed.
"Of course," Ivan took a step pack and nodded at the woman, "Whatever he pleases. And who are you, if you don't mind my asking?"
The woman smirked. "I work for Mr. Jones. You could call me an…advisor."
Ivan raised an eyebrow. "A girl? In a position of such power? How…unlikely."
"Believe me, you'd be surprised," she muttered with an unimpressed stare.
"Ah, well, I will be going now." He turned on his heel and left in the direction of his study, where he planned to have the meeting with this Alfred Jones, deciding to deal with the servant boy and annoying woman later. What she meant, he could not guess, but it only intrigued him further.
Once there, Ivan slowly opened the door and said, "Mr. Alfred, it is a ple—"
He stopped, blinking in surprise. No one was there. His eyes narrowed. That brat had lied? To him? She would certainly regret it.
A tap on Ivan's shoulder alerted him of someone else's presence. He spun around, letting the anger he felt pool into his furious violet eyes.
It was that wretched women! He grabbed her shoulder and squeezed hard enough to draw blood. "Where is Jones, bitch?" Her reaction was smothered expertly, but Ivan could see the pain in her stiff figure. He smirked. "It hurts, da?"
With steeled eyes, the wench put the hand of her uninjured shoulder to her forehead and mocked a salute. "Alfred Jones, a pleasure." She took advantage of Ivan's shock, removing his hand and nonchalantly flicking off the drops of blood that seeped from beneath her skin. "At least, that's what the world knows me as. I personally like to go by Amelia."
Ivan frowned. "Is this some sort of joke? Surely you cannot be the Alfred F. Jones."
"The one and only, my friend." Amelia nodded towards the open door behind Ivan. "Mind if we sit?"
She did not wait for an invitation, rather, she nudged Ivan's bulking figure away from the doorway so that she enter the quaint room and lower herself into a lavish chair. Amelia waited patiently for Ivan to regain his senses, and not a minute later, a tall shadow loomed above her.
"Who the hell are you?" Ivan asked.
"Didn't you hear me the first time, dude? Alfred F. Jones." She rotated her waist to look up at the man behind her. "Look, can you sit down? I'll explain."
Ivan reluctantly complied, stiff and angry in his chair behind his mahogany desk.
"You know what kind of world we live in. A girl has about as much power as a fly. Men seem to ignore the fact that we can really kick some ass. So what happens when my father dies and leaves everything to his two sons, one a wacko and the other silent as hell, and useless daughter? My mother knew that my brothers would never take the throne, so she magically transformed me into a boy," Amelia leaned closer and smiled. "Just kidding! She knew I would be treated like shit, so two boys suddenly turned into three. Get me, big guy? She probably never imagined me turning into a sexy mastermind, but whatever. So here I am, Amelia F. Jones. I've made my move, Ivan Braginski," she leered, "what's yours?"
