Author's note: Okay, this is pretty nerve-wracking. First APH fanfiction I'm gonna write about, and it's already starting out with an OC. I'm a rookie writer, and I don't have the kind of experience other writers have, but I'll try my best. Anyways, I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: If I did own Hetalia, then there would be so much more female nations just to balance it out.

9th of March, 1942

They were a rowdy bunch, but ever since the attack started, they've gotten a tad bit too rowdy. Now they shake the bars rougher, scream louder, and continue to try to grasp at the guards' key whenever they pass by. The result: more screaming by the guards as they slam the bars with their batons, trying to intimidate them.

She can see they're just as terrified as everyone else here.

It wasn't too surprising for her; after spending about a year in the Glodok Gaol, the prison's environment fails to scare her, even if there was war. It was close to noon, and her stomach, filled with expectations for the arrival of food, growls. She doesn't react. Soon enough, the guards, who return exactly five minutes before noon, slips a tray into her cell.

Nasi Padang, she thought amusedly. It reminded her about when she had to cook the exact same dish for Bapak Abel when he asked for it. The memories of being out in the government office rather than a cramped prison was bittersweet, at the very least. She twiddles a bit with the utensils, before wolfing down the food in a matter of minutes.

The girl licks her lips, still not satisfied. The rationing of food due to the war was already a burden on her, but now her body starts to shake. Uncontrollably. She gasps for air, hugging herself as the pain surges from her body and into her heart. My people, my land…

They're being destroyed.

She shakes continuously, until the half-hour mark where the pain recedes, and she stops clutching herself. Her pale knuckles slowly had the color return, while she herself shakily stood up. If it was her heart that's hurting, then it could only mean one thing: Batavia was being assaulted.

Explosions erupt from the west side, then gunfire. More screaming, more cries of pain, and of course, more noise by the prisoners. But there were only three things that registered inside her mind:

Blood.

Smoke.

Death.

Although she was blind to her surroundings outside her dingy cell, the pungent scent of each was something she's familiar with. More familiar than she hoped. She cranes her neck to have her soulless eyes stares at the window behind her.

Only so much light entered, and it only illuminates the bars of her cell. That bright light, along with the cell's wall and guards were all she's seen in a year, ever since Bapak Abel placed her inside the cell to prevent the invaders from taking her.

The female sighs. It was tiring, being another country's slave for so long.

BANG!

A gunshot rang through the air, close by.

BANG! BANG!

More gunshots. She didn't flinch; she was used to it. After all, every time they drain her resources, it's close, maybe exactly, the same as a gunshot wound Bapak Abel would inflict when he gets a little too fed up with her rebellions.

Screams of dying men haunt the insides of the Glodok Gaol. She hates it; even if they were Dutch, Indonesians were too enlisted in the army ever since they got word of the invasion. The death tires her. No more tears flowed out; they ran empty after the third night.

Soon, a foreign language echoed through the air. She understood that it was Japanese, since she's seen and met Japanese ambassadors when they came back in the 1800s. But that was it. The reason why they was here, she can probably guess. Soon, the sound of a click can be heard. The steel door creaked open, slowly, and some light was pouring into the room. Not much, but enough to see that there were three silhouettes standing in front of the door.

"Men, leave us. Patrol the outside and make sure the rest of the platoon captures their leaders. Alive."

A swift salute, the stomping of boots got further and further, till the only things she heard was the crackling of flames and her own breath.

"Who… are you?"

"Kiku Honda, or the Empire of Greater Japan. I've come to place you under my emperor's protection. "

She barks out a laugh. She was surprised she could even still laugh, considering how parched her throat has been. If only they placed more water in her meal. "You're a terrible liar."

…

…

"My name is Putri Firmanda, but you may call me as the Dutch East Indies," she mutters. It was only polite she introduces herself, since it's a show of respect. But in all honestly, she would love to be called Indonesia once more, but after Bapak Abel beaten her new name into her, she got over that want.

Japan scrutinized the weakened girl; a brunette, wearing nothing more than tattered rags, with her hair let loose. Her hazel eyes were fierce, and she herself seemed like she wasn't going down without a fight. Her sun-kissed skin was paling. Japan knelt down close to her, his lips by her ear.

"Now, I will need your help," he whispers thinly. She scoffs, but listens nevertheless. "I will eradicate all Dutch presence in this beautiful land. But you must tell me where the rest of the stragglers are."

"Why should I," she spats, venom clearly audible by her tone. "You think just because you come in dressed like an important guy and rescue me, you've won my trust?"

Kiku sighs; her wounds do belie her passion and perseverance. Without a word, he stood up. He walks away a bit, then turns to face her. "Wha…" Kiku then gets on his knees, and bows.

"Dutch East Indies-san, I beg of you. Please tell me where the rest of the stragglers are. We shall eliminate them with swift and just means, and place your people on their rightful positions, as natives of the land." She was flabbergasted; nobody has ever bothered to bow to her. She remains silent for a few minutes. When Japan looks up, Indonesia was on her knees, a tear streaming down her cheek.

"Will… you… really help me?"

Kiku wasn't sure what caused her sudden mood swing, but it was obvious that her resistance was eroding. Although he knew what will happen to her, he can't afford to disappoint Emperor Hirohito. He stood up, waiting for her to receive his outstretched hand.

"I will."

She accepts the hand.

Putri had felt the most comfort after a year sitting in a Japanese jeep, heading towards the government office with Kiku, the driver and Marshal Hisaichi Terauchi. Behind her were about ten more jeeps of the same model, and they were following quite close by. Despite the hard seats of the jeep, it was nice to be able to experience the wind blowing, having her hair flow freely. She smiles. Kiku took notice, and he himself smiles. But the smile faded when she saw what happened.

The destruction of the area surrounding the jeep were anything but jovial; fires crackled on random buildings and shops, while some people lay dying or dead. But then it happened: a soldier came to a dying woman. He knelt next to her, carrying her with his arms, and quickly dashes off somewhere, possibly the hospital.

Her smile returned, brighter than ever. She was happy someone cared. Soon enough, there were her people, many of them having smiles painted on their faces. They formed a line; while they group traverses the streets, everyone cheers. Some called out to Japan, calling him their "Big Brother," while others cheered for the liberation of their land.

Soon enough, they arrived in front of the government office. Nostalgia rushes into Putri, as she took a long look at the office in which she served Bapak Abel for the last three centuries.

She remembers. The time they went out to the tea plantations, the time they went to eat at a Padangese restaurant, the time he took her to see his country for the first time; she remembers them all. But she remembers the rebellions he put down, the people he's killed, the amount of pain and torture he inflicts whenever she tries to stop him.

The mixed feelings never stopped, and when she spreads the door wide open, she could see him, standing tall and firm with a scowl on his face. Freedom was so close, but she still gulps at the sight of him.

"Abel-san," Kiku deadpans. He glares back at him, then turns his sight on Putri. He doesn't approach her, as Kiku, despite him being only about the height of his nose, appears quite ready to fight back should he mount a desperate strike. So, he stood his ground.

"So you're with the Japanese now?"

She stood tall, pretending as if his question, which sounded more like a statement, hadn't unaffected her. Now that she saw him once more, Abel didn't seem so healthy; rather, he looked as if he was ready to keel over.

He continues on. "Your land was a second home, to both me and my people. Now, my homeland has fallen. You would send me to that Nazi scum in Europe and have me suffer?"

Putri nods, despite her heart's kindness screaming no. She knew that he didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to suffer, despite what he did. Nobody deserves it. Abel intensifies his stare, and his frowning face turns gloomier. His hand instinctively runs through the scar above the right side of his forehead. The one she inflicted when he colonized her fully in 1920.

"Hmph. I see. This scar holds a lot of memories, doesn't it?"

She was about to respond to him, before Kiku materializes in front of her. "Enough with your stalling. Take him away."

Abel steps forward. Kiku's men quickly apprehend him. However, he lurches forward, and crumples on the ground, breathing heavily. The soldiers stepped back, shocked. But Putri knows what happened; his people are being massacred. By none other than her people. She felt her people's bloodlust expand into her body, a horrifyingly satisfying feeling washing her inside.

He acts the same way she did in the cell. She wonders now, to herself, if she was truly this pitiful. But Abel had it worse; he lost his country to Nazi Germany, now he's basically being sent back to serve as their slave. As the soldiers drag the weakened country outside, he gives a final glance back at her. His usually spiked up hair was now limp, and his eyes appear more tired than ever.

Time seems to slow, and resumes normally once he was out of the building, leaving Putri to think:

"Did it have to turn out this way?"

Now, inside the main office, she, Kiku and his generals stood to view the office; it was a octagonal shaped room, with seven windows surrounded by white walls decorated by carvings. The door itself was a fine mahogany, which remains pristine despite the Japanese's poor treatment of everything else.

The room was filled with many Dutch trinkets Abel most likely brought with him. There were compasses, sacks of spice in one corner, a map behind the oaken desk that was probably imported from Amsterdam, and the finishing touch; a larger-than-life painting of the king before he surrendered his country to Germany.

"It's not much different from the last time I left it," she muses to herself, a wider smile cracking up on her face. Her eyes drifted towards the desk; multitudes of paper, stationery, and books were piled on one after the other. A certain picture on the table stood out to her; she reached out to examine it.

If the nostalgia wasn't bad enough in front of the building, the picture she viewed screamed volumes; it was one of her and Abel before his full colonization, back in front of the very same building he was forced to leave. The two almost seemed like a couple.

However, those days are nonexistent now. She is now just Indonesia, a land that awaits her new ruler, whoever that man might be. The taste of independence was bittersweet, but all she thinks about now is how fresh it feels.

Her eyes now land on the chair. The chair that would symbolize the new ruler of Indonesia. She daydreams about it; a strong figure, able to inspire others and change the lives of her citizens…

Before she was forced out of that dream with a blade that stuck out her abdomen. It smoothly shies away from her view as she clutches her wound. Soon enough, she drops to the ground. The last thing she saw was the face of Marshal Terauchi in that very chair, with an emotionless Japan eyeing her.

"Forgive me."

22nd of October, 1944

Once again, she was in captivity, but not in a prison. This time, she remained inside a room at Merdeka Palace. With an empty stomach, cuts and gashes from constant whipping, and a fever of 38 degrees Celsius, her body would not stop trembling. In a measly two years, Japan has depleted her of resources, even faster than the Dutch.

She was so malnourished that she seems paler than in prison. Only once every three days would rations be shifted into her room through a hole by the bottom of the door.

A void that was empty except for one emotion: vengeance. So she laughs. She feverishly laughs a maniacal laugh that would echo throughout the building. For a good thirty minutes or so, nobody dared to enter the room; inside the office, Marshal Terauchi had his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. The laughter was getting to him, not to mention that America was slowly encroaching upon the countries he'd conquered. His sight lands on Kiku, who stood stiffly, eyes not even moving an inch.

"Kiku, go silence that girl."

Now, Kiku wasn't one to talk back to his superiors, and he wasn't about to start now. But he doesn't think he can face her of all people right now. He expects her to react slightly differently from the other countries he conquered.

With a salute, he left the room, approaching Putri's room. He unravels the key from his pocket. A click could be heard, as he cautiously enter the room, one hand on the doorknob and the other on the hilt of his blade.

He espied the enslaved country, not laughing anymore. She lay facedown on the bed, her clothing of only rags to cover her body torn. The room oddly looked tidy; he half-expected it to be destroyed after her fits of laughter. As she stopped laughing, Kiku turns to leave, before a voice spoke up.

"Stop, and stay."

Strangely, Kiku felt compelled to listen. As he turns around once more, she found Putri to be sitting upright, cross-legged. Her eyes were staring at her, intensifying as he tries to avoid her rather accusing gaze.

"You lied."

Kiku made no move to deny it; his gaze settling on a mirror that was diagonally left of the bed. He would do anything right now, anything that doesn't involve Putri. He could hear the patter of her feet, as she slowly comes to view behind the mirror.

"Your promises of freedom were just lies."

He held his breath. "I knew it. It was too good to be true. When I heard that Formosa, Singapore, Malaysia, Philippines, Thailand and Vietnam were taken under your control, I assumed the worst. But then you promise me that," the last part was coated with thinly veiled venom.

"Curse me and my naïveté. And curse you too, Kiku."

He continually remains silence, exercising control over his emotions.

"I hope America destroys you. I hope that your entire navy, which you've prided over and over and over, gets what it deserves. I hope your country will never be able to recover from your losses after the war."

"How did you find out about the plans of Leyte Gulf," a hint of urgency was audible in his whisper. Color rushed into his pale face, as he desperately tries to hold back the anger.

"Does it matter? It's not as if you need to know. Besides, that emperor of yours is as good as a dead-"

Against his own better judgment, he slaps her. She didn't look fazed, despite the cheek quickly accumulating the color red. "Get out of my room, Kiku."

But he was furious. He forces her down on the bed. Putri snarls, head-butting the country. Kiku reared back, before his vision turns red, letting his fists do the talking for him. When his eyes cleared, he found that the female was bleeding heavily, a gash apparent in her cheek. Her lip had a cut and a bruise started to form on her forehead. Despite it all, her lips curl into a twisted smirk. "You really are a monster, Kiku."

He backs away, leaving the room. On his way back to Marshal Terauchi, he told the nearest handmaiden to get medical supplies into Putri's room. She was perplexed, but complied nonetheless.

That day, he swore to never express his anger through violence.

17th of August, 1945

"Bapak Kiku…

No. The Empire of Greater Japan: as of today, I declare my independence!"

A red and white flag proudly flaps about in the wind, at the summit of Merdeka Palace, as the 9:55 AM morning air blew through the streets of Jakarta. The woman, clad in a sleeveless-khaki military uniform, stood before a man on his knees, on the stone pavement in front of Merdeka Palace. She wore the same red-white patterned cloth around her neck, with her hair bunched up into a bun. On the woman's right hand was a sharpened bamboo pole, the tip glistening with fresh blood.

As if the major defeats weren't bad enough.

Her hazel eyes stares down at the man; his stoic expression belies the pain that continually courses inside him, right after the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings. He coughs; blood was visible. More blood was dripping from the cuts and gashes around his body. His uniform, a gift from Emperor Hirohito, lay in tatters. One gold epaulette was missing, and the top buttons came undone.

"You win, Putri-san. We, the Empire of Greater Japan, admit our defeat."

Putri stood tall; she had driven him out. Hopefully the last of the colonial countries that had come for her precious resources. At last, after being attacked by the Portuguese, assaulted by the Spanish, destroyed by the English, traded to and colonized by the Dutch and finally, driven into starvation by Japan's army, she won her independence as a nation. It was, to say the least, a wonderful feeling.

She felt… free. Like the chains that bounded her to the will of other countries slowly came undone. No more calling others 'boss', no more slaving around in my own land, no more watching the freedom fighters die for naught…

Now, she was truly free to call herself Indonesia.

However, the memories retains the frown on her face, like one of Japan's demon masks. He notes that she herself was covered in just as much wounds, especially with that big scar his katana inflicted on her navel. Her outstretched hand… it was a faded memory, but he does remember himself offering the same gesture to her.

Three and a half-years…

"Thank you," She deadpans, the sarcasm hinted as she pulls the beaten country up. Japan was about to question her once more, but she turned a deaf ear on him. Her attention was focused towards something else: the broadcasting system.

Anytime now…

Although she might not be able to see, she imagines a great man, standing upon a podium, surrounded by the people who shared his blood, and some who were of Japanese-descent. He will soon be known as the first President of Indonesia, and her future leader. The man gave a cough; tapped the microphone twice, before he spoke:

PROCLAMATION

WE, THE PEOPLE OF INDONESIA, HEREBY DECLARE THE INDEPENDENCE OF
INDONESIA. MATTERS WHICH CONCERN THE TRANSFER OF POWER AND
OTHER THINGS WILL BE EXECUTED BY CAREFUL MEANS AND IN THE
SHORTEST POSSIBLE TIME.

DJAKARTA, 17 AUGUST 1945

IN THE NAME OF THE PEOPLE OF INDONESIA

SOEKARNO/HATTA

Japan observed the frown which decorated Indonesia's earlier face; it slowly curled up, into a small smile. The cheering erupts like a volcano: loud and high. Japan, despite that pain that continually coursed inside him, came to smile himself; he could see some of his people celebrating, even embracing the other Indonesians.

Kiku finally has a reason to stop fighting. He plops down to the ground, lying back, hands outstretched, eyes closed. He could feel the movement of the other forces that evacuated the other countries earlier, and the panic that his country was facing. His stomach gurgled in pain, his internal problems quickly arising. The pain starts from his legs, slowly creeping up into his thighs, then torso and head. However, he doesn't make any noise.

No use whining about the pain I inflicted to the other countries.

Soon, his nostrils caught a whiff of something burning. He reopens one eye, to see Indonesia sitting right beside him, a lighted cigarette in her mouth. Two fingers pulled the cigar out, and a white puff of smoke escapes her lips.

"Want some, Kiku? A little tobacco might help you forget the pain of those bombs."

She was right. The atomic bombs, especially Fat Boy, felt like a fire erupted inside his body when it landed right at the heart of both Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and hasn't gone out since. Indonesia takes out another cig and lighter. When she passes the lighted cig to him, Japan examines it under the sun. The small, orange light, despite not being a fire, continues to glow by the tip of the cigar. Curiously, he takes a puff. He chokes, and lets little puffs out while coughing and hacking. Indonesia giggles.

"That… felt… hot."

But strange enough, he felt as if his insides were being drowned in ecstasy.

"Honda Kiku."

"Yes, Putri-san?"

"I forgive you for what you did."

Kiku chuckles. It was a low chuckle, barely audible, but she picks the noise up.

"Why are you –" he paused to take another puff, before continuing, "–being so friendly?" He averts his eyes shamefacedly, finding the opposite to be a much more attractive view. "I've killed tens of thousands of your people. I've committed atrocities to many of my Asian kin. How did you endure such torture? Why would you forgive me so, Putri-san?"

His eyes, now both open, scans Putri's facial expression, in which there was no more malice. Only joy. "Because, Kiku," Putri blows another big wisp from her mouth, "despite all that hardship, we don't give up. See this?" Her index fingers point to the tiny glow of his cigar.

"That glow is like the whole country; even if you reduce our homes to rubble, or force us into slavery, or rape or even execute us, the spirit of the nation shall not die. You may step on it to extinguish the light, but more will appear. No matter how hard you try, we'll always be here to fight."

She cranes her neck, flashing Kiku a wide grin. "Besides, your people did help us escape the Dutch, and some of you even wants to remain in Indonesia to work alongside us. Some of your people even helped create that independence speech!"

Truly, her optimism may even exceed Xiao Mei's…

It was all news to him that some of his men helped Indonesia gain her sovereignty. The defeated nation remains silent, but inside, he felt proud; proud that some of his people still had the decency, despite all the atrocious war crimes. He shivers thinking about said war crimes, as his memory took a trip down memory lane, when he assaulted her.

"I also forgive you for that." He was startled that she predicted what he was thinking so easily. "How did you know?"

"Woman's intuition, and that your expressions are easy to read when you let your guard down. So, Djakarta huh…"

In an instance, she turns the conversation towards Batavia's newest name as of late.

"I think," she turns to the blue skies ahead, "we'll make good friends one day."

"I hope so, Putri-san. I hope so…"

16th January, 2017

A large crowd gathers in an unruly state, some holding cameras and microphones while others were barehanded. They were parted in two as a partition made of wood prevented them from converging on the red carpet. It was quite unruly.

Just like in Glodok Gaol…

Beside the seventh President of Indonesia, Putri stood in front of the Bogor Presidential Palace, dressed in formal clothing: a white shirt that had most of it covered with a black blazer, with black slacks and black loafers, her hair tied back into a high ponytail. She would normally wear batik if not for the international guests that'll grace their presence. Her hands are in front of her, the right on top of the left. The President, a middle-aged man with dark hair combed neatly, a creased forehead and gentle eyes, straightens up, fixing his tie. He smiles at Putri.

"When will they be here?"

Putri fidgets slightly. "I'm not sure, boss. It's been seventy-two years since I last laid eyes on him. I wonder how he's doing now…"

"I'm sure he misses you as much as you miss him."

"Boss, you make it sound as if he's my lover!"

The president's smile remained on his face. The two laugh it off, before a car pulls over in front of the palace. The crowd immediately exploded, and would've rushed the car if not for the security stationed at every two meters of partition. Soon enough, three people emerge from the car.

One was an ageing man who had retained his black hair, despite having an age of sixty-two, had sunken cheeks to accentuate his age. The other was a woman with creases to also show her age, yet not as prominent as the first man. The final visitor wore a white naval uniform with the appearance of a young man, with dark-brown hair and eyes to match, followed by his pale skin.

The three smile, making their way to the two Indonesians. They exchange greetings, while introducing themselves. The five make their way inside, before discussion starts.

"Kiku, you can wait out here, talk to that woman representing Indonesia."

So he did wait. The two stare at each other, before breaking into laughter (for Kiku, it was more of a chuckle.)

"My goodness Kiku, it's been forever!"

"Yes, it has been quite a long time, Putri-san."

The two started to converse, forgetting their past problems with each other, and embracing their future as allies.

Trash ending? Yep. Was it rushed? Yep.

Okay, so not what I expected. I think it was too historical. A friend proofread it and commented about how historical it was. I'm not sure if it's good or not. Please, do criticize me about it.

Some terms you'd be unfamiliar with:

Bapak: Mr.

Nasi Padang: A dish originating from Minangkabau, Padang, West Sumatra, consisting of different traditional dishes. For this story I'll be using coconut leaves simmered in milk, Rendang, boiled quail eggs and spicy chili.

Glodok Gaol: A prison located in Glodok (Jakarta's Chinatown), which hosted prisoners of every kind. Death rate's were relatively high.

Merdeka Palace: The Presidential Palace. There are six palaces in total, but only the one in Jakarta and Bogor will be mentioned.

Batik: a technique of wax-resisting dyeing applied to whole cloth, or cloth made using this technique.

Bogor: A city south of Jakarta, West Java. The current president's residence.