For those of you who do not yet know me. I am TinkanaiT32 AKA the Truthsayer of Fanfiction. I tell the dramatic truth, the whole dramatic truth, and nothing but the dramatic truth. My reviews are lengthy, legendary, and love-filled (Okay maybe not so much the middle but that's how I view it). And for those who do know me...

Ello' Chick-a-dees! Long time no see..uh…write…er…you know what I mean! I missed you guys (and girls) like crazy. What began as enlightenment quickly grew into torture. Quit FF?! How in the world could I possibly do that? Answer: Obviously I couldn't. I tried really hard, but my OTPs and favorite authors just dragged me back in.

Now, I finally got my butt back into gear to revive my old stories (as well as improve them of course). Hope it's better than you remember. Well Chick-a-dees…enjoy~

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, that right belongs to the honorable Hidekazu Himaruya. Bless his heart

Prologue (1)

Brown boots clacked against the linoleum floor as Vash Zwingli walked to the main conference room of the Intercontinental Protection Agency. Known to everyone as just IPA, it is a agency comprised of citizens from all over the world that are trained as bodyguards for the rich and famous. Since its establishment IPA is mostly known for its employees. Each member of the organization has a specialty and is proficient in at least 1 other language. Vash Zwingli is a sharpshooter of Swiss decent and is currently the top in his division despite being only 25 years old. The young determined man had climbed through the ranks immediately, completing the training academy in only 2 years instead of the average 4. As expected, being the best also means that he received the most interesting jobs. In fact he had just gotten a call no more than 10 minutes ago from his supervisor to tell him that a new assignment. He was dressed in 2 minutes, left his house in 1 minute, and arrived at IPA in 6.

As Vash approached the room, he let out a sigh as he could already hear the ruckus through the door. Rolling his shoulders and schooling his expression into one of indifference, he turned the doorknob and strode inside the room. It was even louder without the barrier of the door, but it was nothing new. Just members getting together and talking about the horrors of their last assignments or expressing their wishes of new ones. They all sat around a large rectangular table that sat 30 people easily and there was barely half that number there this time, the rest of the members still conducting their assignments.

As soon as Vash sat down in an unoccupied seat, he was immediately handed a large manila envelope that contained his newest mission. He sat it in front of him without looking and waited for their supervisor to come down and give his usual "You are the best of the best, so act like it and don't disgrace our agency" speech. With annoyance, green eyes took in his coworkers who couldn't wait and had already pulled out the documents of their envelopes.

Snatches of conversations floated over to Vash. A few seats down from him Antonio Carriedo, a human lie detector of Spanish decent, was practically gushing about his new assignment.

"I got Lovino Vargas! Yes!"

"Isn't that the brother of the famous chef Feliciano Vargas?" someone from the other side of the table asked, easily hearing his comment at the loud volume.

"Yes, the one and only." Brown eyes were filled with glee as they scanned the rest of the papers.

"Wait...isn't he also apart of the Italian Mob?"

"Si," Antonio sighed, slipping into his native tongue from excitement. Others around the table exchanged a confused glance, but didn't bring the Spaniard down from his high. It was common knowledge that IPA didn't discriminate against their clients, but each member also had their own set of morals. Still a job was a job, and if you were it better spirits the smoother it would move along.

From the other side of the table green eyes took in the sight of two blonds bickering over which of their missions featured the best celebrity.

"There's no way you have someone better than the artist Matthew Willams," Francis Bonnefoy, a French born polyglot, gloated. "Have you seen his works? Incroyable," Francis sighed. "That man's mind is ahead of his time."

"Oh yeah?" Arthur Kirkland, an English bone knife expert, challenged. "I have Wang Yao from the Shen Yun performing arts troupe. He's so graceful. Not to mention he could give you a run for your money in the looks department."

Blue eyes twinkled as Francis heard the last part of the sentence. "So you agree that I am beautiful, no?"

"Wh-what?" Arthur sputtered caught off guard by the comment. "Where in the bloody hell did you get that insane idea from?!"

"You just said, and I quote 'he could give you a run me a run for your money in the looks department' ergo you think I'm beautiful." He concluded with a smug look.

"Th-that's not...I didn't mean...y-you..." the Brit tried to force out the words but to no avail. The Frenchman only laughed at the other's expense.

Vash was startled from the conversation when a shrill scream erupted from right next to his ear. His normally impassive face transformed into a grimace as his ear drum protested the high pitched noise. Feliks, a master of disguise from Poland, was jumping up and down in glee.

"Oh my god, guess who I got! Go a head guess. You'll never guess, but like try anyway. Come on guess!" The effeminate blonde rattled on not even giving the others a chance to speak before he told them. "It's Gilbert Beilschmidt!"

"You mean the rock star?" Another agent clarified.

"Yes!" Feliks shouted strumming on a air guitar in an attempt at imitating the celebrity.

"That dude's a total douchebag," someone put in.

"With a hug ego," another added.

"Yeah, but he's a rich egotistical douchebag with a mansion," Feliks reasoned and there were nods around the table in agreement at the fact.

He might have said more on the subject, but at that time IPA's director walked into the room and there was immediate silence that followed. The time for joking around and rambunctious behavior was over. This was business. The director of the Intercontinental Protection Agency was a tall, blonde-haired blue-eyed retired US military officer named Alfred Jones. He cleared his throat before speaking.

"Okay, listen up. You guys aren't new at your job, you know what needs to be done, what should happen as well as what shouldn't," his deep voice filled the room. "Hopefully, we don't have another case like Ivan." Everyone cringed inwardly at the mention of the ex-member of the IPA. Ivan Braginsky had gotten romantically attached to his client. Unlike most organizations, in IPA fraternization wasn't illegal, only frowned upon. Usually it was just better not to get involved in the first place and most IPA members stuck to that. Unfortunately for Ivan when he failed to protect his client and she died, he went crazy with grief, killing his lover's killers brutally with a lead pipe. He was now at a mental institution in Nevada.

"Don't forget you all are representing IPA," the director continued and everyone knew what was coming next. "You're the best of the best at what you do, so act like it and don't disgrace our agency." There was a pause for him to give each agent a stern look. "Inside the manila folders in your possession are the profiles of your clients. With the exception of a few it includes description of the job, the client's picture, background information, likes and dislikes yada yada yada. You know the drill. Read it, retain it, use it to complete your mission. Inside has the start date of your mission so prepare accordingly. You are dismissed."

And with that chairs scrapped against the floor as everyone got ready to leave. Conversations resumed and once again the noise level of the room rose. Vash had his envelope in one hand and was walking with purpose to the rooms exit when a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Vash!" A low voice called out and he turned to see Elizabeta Héderváry, a projectile expert from Hungary and one of IPAs few female members. "Who's your assignment? Wait, no I bet you didn't even look yet, did you?" She accused and got a roll of green eyes as her answer. "Oh come on, just peek at the name."

"I'll do it when I get home," Vash told her simply.

"Why not just do it now? Come on Vash, it'll literally take a second or three. Please? Please?!" Olive green eyes looked into his, begging for the other to do her bidding.

There was another roll of eyes, this time with a huff thrown in before Vash lifted the manila envelope in slow motion putting on a show for the brunette. Elizabeta snorted in an unlady like fashion, but said nothing. She was too busy happy the other was listening to her demands. So instead she watched the other's expressions like a hawk seeing if he would give away any clue as to his thoughts about his newest charge. Vash pulled the first paper out only halfway to see the profile picture and name, but paused for a different reason. There was no picture which was unusual but the name was very well known especially to the sharpshooter. Without his consent, his lips started to form a smile but he quickly schooled his features. Afterwards he pushed the papers back into the envelope, turned around and left without a word.

Elizabeta was too shocked by the small smile she had witnessed to yell at the other for not telling her who his client was. She clutched her own envelope to her person with shaky hands and left the room, all the while a bewildered expression adorned her face.

5 minutes later...

In the comfort of his own home and in his room Vash opened the envelope and pulled out all the contents. As he read the name once more, he finally let a full smile grace his features. Roderich Edelstein. World famous classical musician...and Vash's biggest idol.

Well, Chick-a-dees what do you think? Please review, otherwise how will I know if I suck or not. I'm open to criticism, and I aim to please.

Ciao