Trouble

Summary: I'm sick and so are my people. We are suffering. We are leaderless and scared. We need help.

Warning: this event has not happened, I got it off the last two episodes of Flashpoint. It's not my best work but I found it in an old journal and thought it deserved to be finished at least.

Toronto, Canada, 9:37 am. Someone with a grudge and a want for terror planted and detonated ten C4 bombs in different buildings of major actions, five of them dirty bombs.

Seven buildings went crashing down. 9-11 operations as well as a cell tower were blown up. People were calling for help and no one could hear their final cries.

Over one thousand people total have been killed, including women and young children. The triage-center, the place where the extra injured went, was bombed and everyone died or was poisoned.

Currently, 543 people, from civilians to cops and firefighters, are suffering from radiation poisoning and are slowly dying.

My name is Canada. I'm suffering too. Covered in third degree burns all over. Gangrene has begun to set. I can't breathe. My blood is poisoned and I can't get up.

I'm sick and so are my people. We are suffering. We are leaderless and scared. We need help.

"Move!"

What…?

"Lift the concrete!"

"I see him sir!"

Who's there…?

Bright lights.

"We've got him!"

Soft, but dull, violet eyes slowly blinked open. Canada groaned against the bright light and they dimmed.

"Broha, you awake?"

"Am-America?" Canada asked, slowly becoming more aware.

"Iggy and France," America replied.

"It's England git!"

"Shh!"

"We're all here mon fils," France said soothingly. (my son)

Finally, Canada looked around; he was in a hospital tenet. If Canada focused, nothing was being destroyed anymore; there was no war. Everything was mostly at peace but his people were still hurt.

"What happened?" Canada asked quietly, and then he began to cough harshly.

England gave him water. "Some nobody started blowing shit up but its okay now. He's dead and you're healing," America replied.

Canada frowned. "How many died?" he asked.

The three grimaced "Canada-," France began.

"How many?" Canada demanded with a glare. "Don't treat me like I'm a child. I'm a country."

They glanced at each other than looked away. "Three thousand dead, four hundred have radiation poisoned and are slowly dying," America replied quietly.

Canada closed his eyes. "I need to get up," he said, and then flinched in pain from his burns.

"No!" his family protested, instantly standing to help him.

"You're too injured," England said.

"They haven't been able to properly treat you," France added.

Canada glared darkly; stopping them short. "My prime minister is dead, I have to lead my country," he growled. "Don't forget I'm like you guys too. You'd already be up and helping."

"I wish I had been too," America argued calmly. "You need rest. I should know; I've been helpless before too."

Canada paused. Oh yeah. Today he'd lost nearly as many people as America had in 9/11; America had been in the hospital for a year after that. Canada supposed his brother did know; he'd been injured and in bed while his people exacted his revenge.

Canada silently sat back. "Send word," he said in a leaders' tone.

Instantly, America, England, and France snapped to attention; ready to help and protect. Canada mentally smiled as he gave the orders.

What was he thinking?

He couldn't and wouldn't die.

Not while he and his family were strong.

FACE.