Prologue

"Ve, it's really here!"

Funny how little things grow up to stab you in the ass. England could give you a perfect, if not rather prickly recount of one such incident, which he did with an alarming frequency when he drank himself into a stupor, which he also did with an alarming frequency.

Italy could do better. He'd been living in the said incident for so long he could hardly remember anything else.

(pale sheets, pale piano, pale, pale skin... crimson on the wooden boards, tainting, spreading)

It was just one sentence. No, in fact, just one word. If he hadn't mentioned it, America would not have taken an interest. He usually didn't in anything that couldn't be eaten or blown up. He would not have been interested in a mansion if no one had mentioned it was haunted.

One word, then. One word. If only he had the power to take back that one word. But no matter how many times he rewound the blasted clock, he could not seal his lips before it came out, could not erase it from existence. The clock taunted him. Mocked him for his incompetence.

Fingers reached up, slicked with crimson. A single tear hit the wooden floorboards, followed by another, and another.

(iron cross sandy hair green uniform the smell of hair gel - broken metal darkened hair reddening uniform the smell of blood)

(nine pairs of glassy eyes)

The clock hands were forced upwards violently. A crash in the room beyond-

"Italy? I'm sorry. We can't hold them any longer. Canada just - he, he just, and America... oh mon Dieu Amerique-"

Italy lifted his eyes and smiled as the clock hands clicked. "It's alright, France. I'll tell them you said hello, si?

"And that rosbif Angleterre, eh bien? When he takes his head out of the clouds long enough to hear you, you tell him to stop looking over his shoulder all the time." France smiled shakily, a hand clasped to a side which he tried to hold away from Italy's view, perhaps hoping he would not notice the treacherous patch of red staining through the indigo cloth.

If so, he hoped in vain.

Italy nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He did not want France's last memory of him to be a crying, blubbering mess. Italy tried to work up a smile, for France's sake if nothing else, but it fell short. Pathetic.

France shuddered as a hoarse cry came from the room beyond. Italy flinched as France turned to him, and with one of his old brilliant, mischievous grins, snapped a quick, sharp salute.

"Vive la France." France whispered. Then he turned and strode towards the monsters, head held high, a broken chair leg held tightly in a bloodied hand.

Italy faced the wall so nobody would see his face. His hands trembled as they found the clock.

Time waited for no man, they said.

But by God, Time was going to wait for him if he had to lasso it with an iron chain and drag it down, kicking and screaming. They were going to get out. They were all going to get out, goddammit.

(how many times had he told himself that?)

The clock burned under his fingers as he forced the hands back. Italy gritted his teeth.

Take. Us. Back.

(Blue eyes, gloved hand in his, a faint, faint smile.)

TAKE US BACK!

The world dissolved-

"- thought it was just a rumour. I never thought we would actually find it"

Italy blinked as he snapped out of his thoughts. Germany was giving him a Look. It was the kind of Look he usually got when Italy slacked off during training, or had accidentally loaded his gun with pasta instead of ammunition. Half exasperation, a quarter irritation, and 100% resignation.

He smiled cheerfully at the blond in an effort to show he was giving the situation his full attention. Germany huffed quietly and looked away.

"It has such a desolate feel... Not bad!" Prussia crowed in delight, red eyes enthusiastically sweeping the cracked walls, creeping ivy, and broken tiles. He was almost prancing on the spot, the rusty sword he always kept around rattling in its sheath.

His blond brother made a noncommittal grunt. "It doesn't look that interesting." Germany muttered.

Japan nodded. "I agree. Can't we simply look at it from the outside and go back? I do not like the ambience of this place. It feels ... dead." He shifted his weight to his right foot, perhaps in discomfort. With Japan, it was always hard to tell.

Italy hid a flinch. He bit his lip and stared at the ground, hating himself for what he had to say next. He could send them home... But will Prussia listen? And America, who was bound to come sniffing later? What about China, with his indefatigable pride? England, who was so desperate to prove his strength after the fall of his empire?

Italy knew the answer almost before he asked the question.

He grinned childishly at his companions.

"Aww... After all the trouble we had finding it? C'mon, just for a little while? Germany? Prussia? Giappone?"

Germany sighed through his nose. "A little while." He allowed.

Italy beamed. He had to clench his teeth to hold back the sob.

Yeah... A little while. We'll get out... I promise... I promise.

He turned the doorknob.

Game On (An optional addition)

The computer screen glowed harshly in the darkened room. The lights had been turned off, and thick curtains blocked out any possibility of sunlight. Nearby, a bed lay against a wall, strewn with discarded clothes that the owner had been too lazy to pick up.

The Player set down their notepad and frowned at the screen. Figures moved within the machine, pixels constantly exchanging spots. The cooling fan whirred softly in the back of the computer.

An emptied cup was set gently onto the table. The Player rested their face on their hands and stared impatiently as the dialogue progressed.

Click.

A notification flashed across the screen, quickly dismissed. The dialogue finally stopped, and the Player was allowed full control of the avatar. A few experiments on the keyboard informed them all they needed to know about the controls.

The light from the computer screen lit up the Player's face eerily as they leaned forward and smiled a fanged grin. A new challenge had been presented. It must be met.

Game on.

I understand I'm late to the fandom. I couldn't help myself, I kinda fell in love with the HetaOni storyline. The game is just so well written, and the emotions... well, they were very well-expressed.

Also, the continuation doesn't quite agree with me, so I'll try to make an ending of my own. I find it a little sad that the original creator couldn't finish it.

Game On is just an optional addition that I felt like adding. You don't have to apply it to the main storyline. In fact, you don't even have to read it. It's just about a normal person playing HetaOni.

I'll add a side crackfic next chapters because goddamn, I need a ray of light in this hellhole of tears and suicidal depression.

-Nano