Summary: It's like an infectious and terminal disease, which turned into a deadly epidemic. They came out of nowhere, because we were careless, we forgot about them, we didn't take care of ourselves as we should have, we didn't do what we should have, do what we had to do. And now, they came here and took everything, they're killing us slowly, and only we can kill them - that's all we can do, kill or die. Only problem is that it's not that simple - the problem is much bigger, much stronger, and worldwide. (New summary, same story.)
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters I write about. They all belong to their respective authors/creators, and I am not saying they are my original works. I do not make money off of this website and my stories. I write for my enjoyment and others', hoping that I can share what goes on in my mind with other people.
Warnings: Angst, gore, blood, paranoia, hallucinations, magic, violence, war, chaos, insanity, dark themes, character death(s), serious injuries, nuclear weapons, language/swearing, insinuations/innuendos (no MA content however), anarchy, autocracy, war, mafia and different illegal activities.
I think I have most of them listed. And of course there will be pairings, but I'm not saying who...
"Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no-one thinks of changing themselves."
Leo Tolstoy.
Rain rattled against the window, the sheer force of the water trying break and shatter the weakened, cracked glass. It was constantly slamming shut, only to reopen with the backdraft of the wind rushing back out. Its hinges creaked as the wind toyed with it, trying to tear it down, crack it up. The wooden frame was resisting only barely, holding its ground against the powerful and violent force of nature. The grey outside was mixing harmoniously with the dull inside of the house, devoid of any life for the minute. The dying fire crackled in its place, the weak flames fighting a losing battle against the cold of the room as it held on to its last breaths for life, slowing diminishing in what seemed like a slow-motion dance. Finally, its flames died out entirely, leaving only the black coal to cool down.
Suddenly, the door opened, only to be shut again with a resounding bang. The dark silhouette marched up the stairs of the squalid shack, causing them to squeak and creak under the pressure. Another door flew open, crashing against the wall behind it, and slammed shut, the hinges complaining noisily. Silence beat down into the house once again, the only noise being the silent war of the raindrops against the window, trying to fight their way in.
While the house was plunged in an almost ear-shattering silence, thick and smothering, another small sound began to etch its way through, slowly chipping at it. The sound of restless footsteps, constantly pacing upstairs, round and round around the room, across it, up and down, never stopping. The steps continued for a minute, then another, which stretched into ten. The almost agonisingly repetitive sound reflected an agonising waiting, the owner of the footsteps waiting desperately for something to happen, for it to happen.
The door downstairs creaked open, delicately, as if the person entering the house knew it was in a very unstable shape and could collapse any minute. The broken wood planks across the windows were rotten, and looked as if someone had tried to tear them away. It would be a surprise to no-one if this was the case. The floorboards emitted eerie noises as the person stood in the hallway, shifting their weight from one leg to another. They knew the person upstairs had heard their arrival, and also knew that they would have to wait for a minute for their temper to calm down. Then, finally, the person upstairs moved around, and came out of the room they had been in. The person downstairs smiled brightly, a malicious glint in their eyes, while the other glared violently.
"No need to make such a sour face, now, is there? I'm here, like I said I would be," the new arrival said.
"Cut it out, Oliver, I ain't here to watch you be a sarcastic little-"
"Don't swear, please, Allen. This is my house, so play by my rules," Oliver interrupted, taking off his coat, his voice a thick, sugary sound. The poison beneath the words was almost inaudible, clear only to those who had seen him at his worst and best.
Allen only glared more, but refrained from starting a fight. He knew why he was here. "Well?"
Oliver ignored him in favour of going to the kitchen. "Can I offer you a cupcake?" He lifted a plate of bright, colourful cupcakes, all decorated to the last bit. Allen raised an eyebrow, scowling at him. He shot the Brit a look of disbelief from over his red sunglasses.
"Ya seriously think I'm here to get poisoned by-"
"Allen, I am wounded." Oliver pouted a bit, before picking one of the cakes and taking a bite. "You know I do not poison these without an actual reason. And what could be the reason behind poisoning the person I need help from, anyway?"
"Don't care, I ain't hungry. Just, can we get on with it? I have to see if we got any chance of even getting there in the first place. Never mind finishing them off, but-"
"Allen, one step at a time. I first need you to help me see whether we can drag the thing up here. Then, I will try to make it work, and after that - and only then - will we be able to tell the others. And well, get them through."
Oliver brushed past Allen, still eating the cupcake. He looked around for a moment, before locating what he was looking for. He stepped towards the stairs, to the wall under them. He passed his hand over the wood, fumbling for something. His hand then suddenly caught, and he wrapped it around the metallic handle he had revealed. A small door swung open, revealing an almost complete darkness behind it. The only thing they could see was the top of the stairs that led down - or what was left of them. Half-eaten, rotten or otherwise weathered, they looked like they could not stay up another minute without collapsing.
Allen looked dubious. "Alright, I got two problems with this. That's just like you to have a cliché basement door, and two, why the fuck did you think I would go down those?"
Oliver sighed in exasperation. "Just pass me a candle - or if you happen to have a torch with you, that's better. And those stairs are made of rock-"
"They're wood."
"It's a spell," Oliver snapped. "Of course I don't want anyone going down these stairs, so of course I have to make it look like they're crumbling." He shook his head. "Now can you please give me some light?"
Allen huffed, reaching into his pocket, and handing Oliver the torchlight. Oliver turned it on, flashing it to the basement. He waved his hand quickly, and the stairs quickly became stone. Oliver stepped in, and Allen followed. The torchlight offered little illumination in the almost complete darkness still surrounding them, barely a sickly orb that scanned the stairs. They finally reached the bottom, entering a small room. Oliver snapped his fingers, and torches around the room lit up. The room was filled with hundreds of objects - most of them broken or unusable. There were glass shards on the floor, crunching beneath their shoes. Oliver quickly looked over the room, and made a beeline for the back corner. There was a tall object hidden by a moth-eaten sheet that had probably one day been white, but now was an ill grey colour. A light giggle escape the strawberry-blond man.
"Found it!"
A world away, the golden, dying sunlight flooded a conference room with its warm water of life. It cast a glinting shine upon everything as it billowed in through the windows, carried by the autumn breeze that made the velvet curtains flow gently. Not that many people in the room noticed. The sky was darkening, tucking itself into the warm bed of night, but the nations gathered for the conference had payed no heed to the fact for over an hour. The voices inside could be heard a long way in the hallway behind the room, the arguments carrying far.
"Oh, and you are a bloody brilliant plan-maker, aren't you, frog?"
A frustrated huff.
"What exactly are you implying?"
"Do I really need to remind you of the Maginot Line (1)?"
"Hey, guys, I'm not taking sides, but he's got a point."
"Espèce de-"
"Alfred, you are always taking sides and poking your nose where it does not belong, вы любопытный идиот."
"What did you just say?"
Hands slamming onto a table.
At that same moment, the door opened, a petite brunette woman entering the room. She looked confused, as the room seemed completely chaotic. She had heard the shouts and sounds from the moment she stepped out of the elevator, and she was surprised right then. She had thought this was supposed to be some sort of business meeting. Or political. She couldn't exactly remember, she was only here to deliver a message. Which would apparently prove a much harder task to do than she had thought at first. She looked around the room, trying to remember who was who - she had been at the reception when these people had come and claimed their rooms, but there were just so many names and faces that she had no clue who she was looking for. And as a further complication, it seemed that no-one had noticed her, even though the door had slammed shut behind her due to the wind. She tried to tap a calmer man (who was at least sitting) on the shoulder, only to find he was asleep. She scanned around the room, wondering if she could find someone who did not look too vicious or violent. Unfortunately, all she could see was the beginnings of fist-fights.
She almost turned back to the door when she heard it turned around, and saw a tall, broad man standing there with a look of exasperation in his icy blue eyes. He strode up to the end of the conference table, not noticing her. She could see he was about to yell, and covered her ears. Sure enough, not a minute later, she could hear his booming - accented, why did everyone have different accents? - voice resonate through the room. Less than two minutes later and a rather strange speech, everyone was settled back in their chairs - except two men.
"I don't care, Ludwig, but this bastard here said I always meddle in everything!"
"Alfred, I am merely-"
"Shut up, Ivan, I wasn't talking to you! Point is, I'm not going to let him insult me-"
The young woman decided to cough delicately at that point, before the room went into chaos again and she would have no chance of delivering the message. Everyone's eyes then snapped on her, as if seeing another human being for the first time. She shuffled her feet a bit, looking around for someone to address. Luckily, the German man spoke first.
"Yes, fräulein?" He asked, his voice much calmer than it had been a minute ago.
"I - there was a phone call for, uh..." she looked at the piece of paper on her hand, "a certain Arthur Kirkland. I - I was told he was here?" She hoped she didn't sound too apprehensive. She hoped the message wasn't for the loud-mouthed, rude American. She looked at the man, but no response came from him. Instead, a chair scraped against the floor as someone else a bit down the table stood.
"That would be me," he said, in a clearly English accent. She almost sighed in thankfulness, but decided not to seem impolite. She strode up to him, handing him the paper she had in her hand. She whispered a few words to him, that she thought relevant but may not be. She then quickly thanked the rest and apologised for disturbing the meeting, and swiftly got out of the room. That was the strangest meeting she'd ever seen.
Back in the conference room, Arthur read the paper again in confusion. Alfred, sitting next to him, almost read behind his shoulder, but at the last minute decided not to give Ivan the satisfaction of seeing him nosing into other people's business. Arthur sat back down, and slid the note into his folder without any comments, and the rest of the nations looked on, expectantly. Arthur noticed the silence, and then noticed the curious looks he was getting.
"What?" As he received no response, he huffed. "You lot are just nosy gits, aren't you?"
"Alfred must be dying to-" Ivan started, but Alfred cut him off immediately.
"Shut up now, if you know what's good for you!"
"Alfred calm down," Arthur said. "Did you see the poor girl enter, the look she gave you after you yelled at Ivan?"
"Well, it wasn't my fault, I wouldn't cause scenes if -"
"Mon cher, what was in the note?" Francis said, leaning back in his chair.
"My boss only called and said that as soon as the meeting is over, I should call him back. That's all." Francis knew that the girl had said something to Arthur, which he had decided to leave out. He would bother the man later, when there were less ears about and he would be more likely to coax something out of the uptight man. Some nations then shrugged, while others simply went back to what they were doing before their small interruption. Ludwig was watching, and some control was kept on the nations. Though little could be done when a nation (Alfred) decided to insult another (Ivan) so far that they stormed out to sort it out themselves (fists).
After that, the meeting was adjourned, and the nations filed out of the room. Voices of different pitches, accents and emotions could be heard probably from the lobby. Francis stayed behind as Arthur was always a slower packer. He seemed to be distracted by a thought, as per usual, and Francis awaited patiently, leaning against the wall by the door. Arthur finally seemed to get his things into his suitcase, straightened his black suit jacket and tie, and turned around only to halt at the sight of the Frenchman. Francis simply smirked, because he knew that Arthur's scowl was the one that only he could obtain from him - and these days, it came without any effort on Francis' part. He simply needed to breathe in a 5-kilometre radius from Arthur, and the Englishman would know. Arthur then walked through the door, brushing past Francis and ignoring him completely. Francis followed him, not giving him the satisfaction of asking first. He knew this would annoy the other to no end, and it was just good that way. After five minutes of walking (they were now in the elevator), Arthur whirled on Francis.
"What is it you want?" He asked, arms crossed, an ever-present scowl on his features. His usual stance. If this hadn't been the case, Francis would probably not recognise the man, and he would perhaps even find the Brit handsome.
"Nothing, really. Except that I would like to know two things. The first, what did the girl tell you? And second, what did you not tell us about the note?" Francis asked, and Arthur sighed.
"You are horrendously inquisitive today, aren't you, frog?" Arthur asked, digging into his folder. He fished out the note, and handed it to Francis. "Here, have a read, knock yourself out. There's nothing on that note that I did not tell you, and the girl only said that my boss had called about ten minutes before I received this." Francis read the note.
"When the meeting is over, call your boss to the following number ..."
Arthur stretched his hand out, waiting for the other to hand him back the paper. Francis did, and at the annoyed look Arthur gave him, he only shrugged.
"I had to make sure you were not hiding anything from me," he said, in the honeyed accent of his country. Which Arthur called "horrible linguistic butchery". As an after thought, he added, "Although you are wearing a few too many layers, to my taste..." He grinned at the Brit's offended huff, and dodged the hand that had come to slap him over the head, instead landing on his arm. "It was a joke, Arthur!" When Arthur had gone back to his arms-crossed-hip-jutting-out-I'm-annoyed-at-you stance, Francis continued. "Mon Dieu, Arthur, when was the last time you had a drink and loosened your tie?" Francis asked. Arthur shot a flaming glare at him.
"Francis, you were there, you saw it, and you even took pictures. No, I do not wish to see them! I am not going drinking with you, ever." Arthur looked away, tapping his foot as he waited for the elevator to stop at the first floor. The meeting was held in London this time, and Arthur could not wait to get back home, make the damned phone call and put a kettle on the stove. Because he either needed tea or a whiskey. And he had decided not to start drinking at 4 o'clock, as much as that seemed appealing an idea.
"Your boss told me to tell you personally that it may be urgent, and to me, he sounded... worried, I could say."
The girl's words still rang in his mind. His boss was usually the most rational and calm man he had known in ages, and for him to sound panicked was a feat - he would always strive to sound professional and composed, even in informal conversations and when confronted with the most inflammatory insults. And the phone number scribbled on the paper in pencil was strange. He knew the number, but as he did not have his address book under hand, he hadn't been able to check what it was.
Francis had followed him to the lobby, because he was absolutely convinced that the tension between the two superpowers that had stormed out from the meeting might be more than just hate. And Francis was certain he could find the two idiots somewhere down here. Arthur decided not to stay, and hailed a taxi. The ride back home was a much welcomed break, and he closed his eyes for a minute. World Meetings still baffled him: they were nothing more than an excuse to argue with each other (and it wasn't as if the nations didn't do that anyway), nothing was ever achieved, and everyone ended up going drinking every night. Which brought about even worse meetings. And they were a pain to organise. As soon as the car pulled to a stop, Arthur shoved the money into the driver's hand and made for his study as soon as he'd jammed the key into the door of the Victorian house.
He tapped the numbers into his phone, all the while flipping through the pages of the book that had been in his desk, trying not to let his eyes unfocus from the ache his head was now giving him. He studied each number he had, not finding the one he was looking for. He was on the second to last number (and frowning) when the phone answered.
"Prime Minister? It's me, Arthur."
"Oh, yes, Arthur. It's good you called."
"Where exactly are you calling from?" Arthur asked, finishing to go through his numbers. He had not found it in the book, and therefore was a bit surprised. Which did not help with his headache. He was sure he had almost every number of -
"I'm calling from your estate in Scotland." Why exactly was he there?
"Might I inquire why, exactly, you are calling from there?"
"Of course, I should explain. The Scottish First Minister called me this morning to inquire whether I had seen your brother, Allistair, anywhere. It seems as if he has left Scotland for no good reason, and without informing him of it. His estate was empty, devoid of a note, and we checked - the latest phone call he made was almost a week ago, though that was not his cell." Arthur had to fight the urge to snort. But why the two Ministers were so worried, he had no idea. It would not be the first time that Allistair might have woken up in an unknown place, with someone he didn't recognise, and a bursting head. He knew the Scot's tendencies. "We called your other brothers, and they have no clue as to where he could be."
"How long has he been gone for?"
"It would soon be four, five days."
"As long as it is not a month, there's no reason to worry. He's probably gotten lost somewhere, and it would not be the first time he vanishes for a couple of weeks. Prime Minister, believe me, he will be back by the end of the week. Good day." Without further conversation, he hung up. He massaged his temples, trying desperately to find an aspirin somewhere - anywhere. He might have been a tad curt, but his Prime Minister seemed to be fussing about him worse every day. Yes, alright, the House of Parliament was a bit of a mess these days, but wasn't almost everyone's governments a bit off these days? Business in the Middle East was not going as well as thought (much to Alfred's chagrin), and people were slightly fed up with governments messing about. But last he'd heard, Alfred's presidential elections were completely thrown off, Francis' Congress politicians were constantly giving each other trouble and everyone else was having some sort of little problems. It was nothing that Arthur hadn't seen a hundred times before. Literally.
Arthur made for the kitchen, and snatched a glass of water and an aspirin before he placed a kettle of water where it belonged. This was nothing new from the ordinary, and nothing would probably change for another hundred decades. Arthur sometimes thought that they could use a diversion, but usually, when it came to nations, diversions were just a turn for the worse. Scotland could do whatever the hell he wanted as long as he didn't bother Arthur.
Scotland had been acting up for a few years now, and Arthur could use a break from the insufferable git. He was usually debating who was worse - him, or Francis.
His phone began to ring. Arthur hoped to heaven and hell and then back that this was not one of those 'speak of the Devil' moments, because he would probably be much gladder if Satan himself came to have a cup of tea. It was a gentle bell sound, but in Arthur's state of unrelenting headache (aspirins were bloody slow), it seemed an atomic bomb had detonated right outside the kitchen (if atomic bombs rang). He was arguing with himself the reasons why he should leave it, but in the end, the wish to just answer it only to hang up immediately was just too tempting.
"What?" He spat, and as soon as he heard the Frenchman, he stiffened.
"Arthur!" Arthur groaned.
"This better be very good, frog." Arthur said, not even hiding his irritation. "Francis, I swear to the highest powers that are up there, I will not hesitate to punch you tomorrow. I have a blasted headache that is not letting up -"
"Arthur, you are way too stressed! You must relax once in a while. You have to come, Alfred said he would pay." Arthur mumbled something in answer. Francis grinned, and Arthur knew that the Frenchman would not leave him alone until he agreed, so he decided to give in while his poor mind did not hurt too much. He didn't need the annoying pitch of Francis' voice to give him an incurable headache, after all.
"Fine, fine, but don't you dare get me completely smashed." After one thought, he added. "Do not take your cellphone."
"Arthur?" No response. "Angleterre, are you still there?" A grunt. "It will be fun, I tell you! And I promise I will not take pictures." A huff.
"You do know you are the last person on this planet I would ever trust."
Francis snorted. "C'est ça, et moi, je suis la reine d'Angleterre," he mumbled. Ah, he knew the Englishman may not say it, but he would trust Francis with his life. After all, over a millennium of fighting, wars, and in the last century, alliances, there was not a single thing about him that Francis did not know.
"I bloody well hope you aren't, because otherwise my country has gone to the dogs."
Francis did a double-take. "Since when do you know how to speak French?"
Arthur rolled his eyes, an unimpressed look on his face. Though Francis couldn't see it, he probably could guess it. "If I recall correctly, it would be end of 16th, beginning of 17th Century, I would say." Francis was surprised. For hundreds of years, he hadn't known that Arthur could speak his language, and now he found out that all his insults had been understood. Arthur continued, "Oh, and frankly, 't'es con comme tes pieds'? If that's the best you can do, frog, then you better revise your insults."
Francis smirked. Apparently, Arthur had missed out on all the good insults. And his accent was horrible. And he told him that, obtaining a scoff for his troubles. "Well, I am outside your door, and the taxi is waiting."
Arthur almost yelled at the Frenchman for coming uninvited (Arthur could very well find his own taxi!) but he heard the knock at the door, and decided to just punch him when he came in. Arthur slammed the receiver down, and violently flung the door open. He decided not to make good on the promise he made to himself as he had to remember that whether or not there was a frog in his yard, he still was a gentleman. Instead, he could silently glare at the man, and await an explanation.
"Arthur, why do you look so sour? I am here to take you outside, before you become the 'stereotype British grampa' Alfred said you would soon turn into." Arthur rolled his eyes.
"Do not make me regret this, or there will be hell to pay." Pulling his coat on, he was almost out the door when he heard a crack from the upper floors of the house. He whipped around, and was halfway on his way to the staircase when Francis decided to interject.
"Arthur, really, what now?" He sighed. "It was nothing, I'm sure. This is a three-hundred-year-old house - at least - and if I inspected my house every single time a sound happened I would never leave it!"
Arthur glared. "I don't think you ever hear the sounds, because you're too busy making them."
Francis chuckled. "Well, Angleterre, you seem very interested in noises, so-"
"Don't even think about it." At that, Francis laughed. It was always entertaining to see the Briton's reactions. He placed his hand on Arthur's shoulder, and directed him back towards the door. Before Arthur could protest, he had been shoved right back into the taxi and the car on its way to where the other nations had gathered for the evening. He hoped he could just show up, have perhaps one scotch, and leave and call it an early night. And perhaps check upstairs later.
But Arthur and drinking never mingled well.
Notes and translations.
Espèce de - why you (as in "why you little-!")
Bы любопытный идиот - you nosy idiot
Fräulein - miss
Mon cher - my dear
Mon Dieu - my God
Angleterre - England
C'est ça, et moi, je suis la reine d'Angleterre - yeah, right, and I'm the Queen of England (French saying, means 'don't take me for an idiot').
T'es con comme tes pieds - you're as stupid as your feet
(1) For those who do not know, the Maginot Line was an example of brilliant French military strategy. It was a line of fortifications built by the French after the First World War between France and Germany. Its strongest walls extend from near Strasbourg to the Ardennes, where France and Belgium meet. Its purpose was to protect the French from German attacks, should they invade again. The French had only weak fortifications between France and Belgium, as Belgium was on their side, and they did not think that the Germans would go through Belgium, or cross the thick forest of the Ardennes like they had in 1914. They thought that if Germans attacked they would try to directly cross the Franco-German border. However, during WWII, the Germans decided to use these assumptions to their advantage: they would organise a decoy attack through the mainland of Belgium, and drive the British and French troops near the coast. Their main attack was then led through the Ardennes forest, near the weak defences. In a sickle-shaped movement, they would cut behind the troops, isolating them from supplies and reinforcements. This was successful, and the troops were forced to flee from Dunkerque. All due to French military planning.
A/N: I am planning on this to be a multi-chapter story, so more is to come! For all the historical references, I usually do about fifteen minutes of research - unless I know it already. So, if anything is wrong, please feel free to point it out. Now, I have a busy year at school, so I do not know when I will be able to next update. But I promise I will update. Please tell me how you liked it, and of course, constructive criticism is welcomed with wide arms. Until next time!
