The room was freezing.

Russia could see his breath puffing into the air already thickly saturated with tension.

He wasn't stupid. He knew they what they were doing. All his people were rioting and killing, stealing from each other and throwing themselves into anarchy.

And everyone thought Russians perfered hating each other quietly, he remarks mentally with a strained smirk.

You can only stay quiet so long. The ice had broken, and now all of blazes broke loose.

Russia flinches when the constant throbbing soreness wormed in through his body worsens. It was getting out of hand now. He sighs, letting the breathy mist out like cigarette smoke, and gazes up at the ceiling. It didn't matter what he did, he would be the one to witness his children gone mad as they destroyed him.

And I thought I knew loneliness before. Before he had at least held the comfort of his people, and the knowledge that, as a nation, he would continually have new chances at trying to make a friend.

But now even that was ripped away, as in his nation's destruction he would loose everything and cease to exist.

It was quite sad. But he couldn't even walk without limping now, so how could he attempt to pull everything together again?

Then he feels it. He can feel that hand's motion before it meets the wood. He can feel their ill intentions before the violence in the knocking at his door is heard.

These were people who knew who and what he was.

Meaning he was in serious danger.

But he didn't move. It would do no good. Escape and abandon his people? Or let them take him and do what they wilt? Neither were good options. So he didn't bother to even try.

The door was busted in by a hatchet and three bullets and heavy feet pounded the stairs as the came closer. Finally the door swung open. Both familiar and not so faces surrounded him. These people were filthy and from clear poverty. They looked like they were straight from Japan or America's zombie apocalypse games, but that was normal in the current Russia. Two of them were from the government.

Russia scans their faces, twisted in the madness brought about by fear, hatred, and sadness. These men were no longer men, but monsters preparing to do a very bad thing. Desperation drives good people to become these fear-driven monsters, and now all Russia could do was wait for them to make their move.

"Hey. Nation. Fix this." One man spits. Russia smiles sadly at him and shakes his head, knowing that it didn't matter if he tried not explain or not.

"This is your fault right? Fix it!"

More angry outbursts break out and Russia closes his eyes, smile frozen at his lips, head bowed in resignation.

When the shouts reach a certain level, and their temper hits fever pitch, they move in and become physical. Russia does nothing as they hit and kick him, makes no movement as they involve their weapons.

That smile doesn't change, openly admitting "hey, I'm at fault. I did this. I deserve your punishment."

When the men exhaust their immediate frustrations, they stop and begin restraining him with cuffs, belts, and ropes, along with any other object that can be used to tie him up. One prods him with a gun to encourage him to stand, and then they lead him away.

Down the stairs.

Out of his house.

Into the chaos.

His smile doesn't slip.