Decretum: (dɪˈkri:təm) — n — Decree, judgment, order.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of its amazing characters. Some of the characters along the way are made up and fictional, created and intended for the major conflicts and plot line.

-READ-This story is based off of many head-cannons on my part. If you do not like action, or the inevitable destiny where some of your favorite characters may end up dead/tortured, then do not read this fanfic XD

Warning: Torture, mature content (16+), and realistic concepts/events somewhere ahead.

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. It is sweet and proper to die for one's country.

...

Chapter One: To Judgment; to Common Sense

Berlin, Germany. 18:34 January 7, 2014

"Fire!"

Riffles popping, men shouting orders and grenades blowing dirt into the already clouded sky echoed through the crisp evening. A clump of wet dirt and rocks flew into an open wall, smashing a vase and picture frame. It did not faze the seemingly young nation of Germany, only rose him from shock.

"Vhat's going on..." The blonde blinked once more, taking in the site of his used to be estate from the gaping hole in his study. Chilling winds whipped past him, raising painful goosebumps. Men were scrambling about the lawn, wearing familiar letters that proved their loyalty to the law, to him. They were climbing up and over electric fences, stomping over his gardens and trashing his yard. Ludwig saw his own security back down, dropping their weapons to kneel into the snow.

They were outnumbered.

"Get on your knees!" Ludwig as if in a daze, turned to be met by a tall blonde man accompanied with a riffle. Striking blue eyes widened, the silence almost intoxicating. They were arresting him?

Ludwig furrowed his eyebrows and stepped forward, lifting disarming hands incredulously. "How did you-"

"I said get on your knees!"

He had no other choice than to drop to the ground, the harsh hardwoods biting into his kneecaps. As if on cue, a dozen or so more men just like the one threatening him, filed into the usually cramped office. They had their weapons at the ready, setting their aim to kill. Ludwig knew these men were about honor and respect. Trained and taught with an eagle eye.

Why would the militia be at his house? Why were his own people attacking him?

Ludwig took one last look around his home, the once warm and inviting German was now forced to his knees for an unknown crime. Not many questions ran through Ludwig's head before he was socked to the temple. His vision blurred into a painful red-black, shadows succumbing him into the inevitable darkness.

"Italia..."

Calabria, Italy. 18:34 January 7, 2014:

Lovino sighed tiredly, tailored shoes clicking against the frozen cobblestone pathway, echoing off of the walls surrounding him. He'd decided to take a stroll through the winding streets and fresh bakery scented alleyways. He'd grown to love his land, caring for the people as if they were his own family. Although, no one else knew about his secret caring side. He felt content in not one person knowing everything about him.

The Southern Italian's mindless strolling came to a halt in the snow as he noticed a few military trucks roll past him. Lovino blanked, his face contorting in confusion; he hadn't called for a drill today. Taking a couple curious steps forward, he saw the same vehicles making their way up the dusty snow hill to one of his many villas.

He soon realized that the area he was walking through, usually filled with dirty children playing futbol, was more or less empty. The only thing close to sound was the random crashing of the lazy waves off to his left. Only the crunching of ice beneath shoes, and the engines of passing trucks.

"What the fuck?" Lovino took another step forward before a surprisingly strong hand yanked him back. Lovino's blood raced, his heart thrumming in his freezing ears as the faceless person held him close against the stoned wall. He could see his breath accumulating into tiny puff clouds as two soldiers walked past their alley.

"I-I'm sorry I had to." Lovino blinked at the familiar nervous tremor behind him. He huffed and ripped himself away from the wall, glaring daggers into the small golden haired boy.

"Aniello what the hell are you doing here?" Lovino seethed, not holding back with the amount of venom laced in his hiss. The personification of The Vatican City flinched at the harsh whisper, his golden eyes darting around, worry clear on his face.

"They're coming for you! A-and I knew that if they came for someone as tiny as me, they'd want you too...I've talked to Seborgia and they're there as well." Lovino's eye twitched as Aniello nearly whimpered, fidgeting with his coat.

"Exactly who is 'coming for me'? Seriously Aniello, if the fucking Vatican even knew you were here-"

"They do!" That stopped the southern Italian from his scolding, narrowing his eyes instead. "They told me to warn you about them."

Folding his arms, Lovino clicked his tongue, already annoyed with the use of the word 'them' freely. He stood there a moment waiting...until huffing, "Who?!" His patience was wearing thin with every passing moment.

Aniello bit the inside of his cheek, averting his eyes. "Our people, they know."

Paris, France. 18:57 January 7, 2014:

The wall phone rang, sending its buzzing annoyance off the walls and berating the Frenchman until he jolted from his nap. It had been ringing for a good ten minutes now. Francis decided to drag his gorgeous self from his slumber to pad over to the wailing noise.

"Oui-"

"Why the bloody hell haven't you been picking up your phone?! It's there for a reason you half witted froggy..."

Francis winced at the ear splitting tirade from his dear Angleterre, getting rid of his headache. He didn't need the Advil anymore. "Ch-..." he tried to cut in, "Cher! If I needed you to yell at me," he smirked, twirling the phone cord with a leisured sigh, "I'd just get you drunk, or slap your ass..." he thoughtfully added, blinking. "What has my little Englishman's panties in a twist now?" he joked airily, peeking down the elongated window into the streets below as a few police cars flew by. The amount of crime adding up these days was horrendous.

"Where are you?" Francis eyed a glass of white wine out of the corner of his eye and snagged it lazily. It wasn't his favorite, but it would do. So much for his week of being sober.

"In my Paris flat," he droned, sloshing the rich liquid around. His eyebrows pulled together as he watched a helicopter fly by. Usually, Francis wouldn't pay much attention to just an ordinary flying piece of metal. But when it was searching the windows of nearby buildings and onlookers, he became curious. He squinted as the blinding light passed his room, running a hand through his hair.

He faintly heard England swear, shuffling some papers around on the other end. "Francis you need to get out of there." His voice was urgent, if not nervous.

He watched as the helicopter landed on top of a neighboring building. He tilted his head, letting the receiver rest between his stubbly chin and shoulder blade. He could hear the noise from the television, something about 'catching him, and ending this once and for all'. He raised his eyebrows, the poor lad must have done something pretty horrible for it to get to the news as this hour.

He reminded himself to ask his boss about it later that evening.
"Hello? Francis? France answer me damn it!" The voice was muffled, but he could still hear its undertone.

"Shhh..." Francis hushed the phone suddenly, peeling back the nearly translucent curtains as he watched geared men hop off of the flying beast. The men were now crouching down, assembling something on the rooftop. He noticed the design on the side of the aircraft, and immediately ruled it military.

Military?

Was there another terrorist threat? His lips pursed, not even a month had gone by with the last act of terror. He was already groggy and running a cold, who the hell would be targeting him now? His economy, like most of everyone's was going down the shitter.

"Francis!" England's voice pulled him from his stupor. He sounded like everything except the nice words.

"What is it mon cher?" Francis insisted, turning from the window to walk back into his bedroom. He could hear giggling and decided to re-route, taking his chances on the veranda. Plus, he'd be able to see what all the hype was about.

"Would you stop and listen you bleary asshat?!" he flinched at the name calling, settling down into one of his bar stools out looking the beautiful city that was Paris.

"Oui my ears can take it," he hoped. His legs swung languidly, the fresh air mixing desserts and pastries even up to this height. He turned his attention back to the rooftop across the way and blinked, his wine glass resting at his lips. There were at least five or six snipers aiming towards his building.

"Francis they found us." He could barely hear England's voice as a red dot trailed over from the side of his building. It was suddenly so quiet in the usually loud city. "Y-You need to leave. Now, or else..."

"So this is the end." Francis's heart leapt in his chest, Arthur's voice getting cut of by his own. He slowly rose from his chair, watching the dots flicker to his veranda as if on cue. He knew his men, knew they'd stop at nothing to protect their lives and the ones they loved.

After all, Paris is the city of love.

The first shot shattered the glass Francis was still holding by his side. He hissed, ripping his hand back, slipping into his room slowly. Another shot, whizzing by his head, cutting a blade of hair. They were off marker. Francis felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple as he felt the heat from the red dot on his thigh.

The riffle was quick, but Francis was quicker. If anything he had to be shot in the arm, so he could still run. He slid out of the way, just as the bullet grazed his upper thigh, ripping the material as it shattered a mirror on the wall. He heard the girl, whoever she was, scream and run from the room as he felt a painful bite to his shoulder.

Francis dropped the phone, Arthur's voice yelling through to him the whole time.

"Je t'aime."

He side stepped, taking another bullet to the same arm. Francis didn't once swear as he made haste to his door, deciding it was too easy and then re-dragging himself to the emergency exit.

He glanced back for a moment, taking in his room before a shot to the picture frame beside above jolted his escape. Dropping and smashing his beloved cellphone, Francis flew down the stairs and out the back door into the night.

New York City, New York. 13:26 January 7, 2014:

Alfred was at a nearby opening of the new McDonald's when his phone started buzzing madly in his jacket pocket. The young nation blinked, setting down the not-even-bitten double cheeseburger to check his iPhone 9.3. Damn things keep upgrading.

"Jones here." He settled the delicate piece of crap phone onto his shoulder, biting into his glorious masterpiece. He smiled and waved to Ronald McDonald as he made his rounds with the array of grubby children wanting a kids meal.

"A-Alfred..."

Alfred laughed outright, realizing exactly who it was, "Yo Mattie! What's up bro? Did you lose a hockey game or somethin' you sound horrible." He gave into another bite, turning away from a young boy trying to nab at his French fries.

"Uh...it's nice to talk you you too," he snickered, shoveling a handful of oh-so-right crispy fries into his chomp hole. He had no idea what all of those European veggie-heads were talking about, McDonald's was as good as it got.

"So what can I do for ya?" he wiped at his mouth with a yellow napkin, reaching to slurp his diet coffee.

See? He was healthy.

"Uhm...w-we have a problem."

Alfred scrunched his nose, pushing his glasses up as he settled down next to the fake Ronald on a bench. "What kind of prob?" he ruffled his hair, flicking some extra crumbs off himself as a pretty lady walked by. "You alright buddy you sound shaken up." Alfred usually never had calls from his brother other than to come over on a major hockey night. They'd travel up to their cabin on the boarder line between Canada and America to chill out, drink a beer and watch hockey until they passed out.

"Who's on first?"

Alfred stiffened, finding that he had already shot up to his feet and blinked, plugging his left ear to hear better. "Yes."

He could practically hear Matthew nodding, "What is on second base."

Alfred's heart fluttered unevenly as he took another glance around. "I'm not asking you who's on second."

"No."

The American hung up on his brother stiffly and dropped his phone into the nearest oversized trash bin. He shifted, stuffing his hands into his pockets and made his way down one of the busiest streets in NYC.

Alfred noticed after a couple blocks, that Ronald McDonald wasn't just conveniently handing out kids meals everywhere he went. He was being followed.

Anyone but Ronald! That was just cruel!

He blinked and accidentally bumped into a street vendor selling t-shirts. He thanked whatever god was looking down on him and bought one, ripping his jacket off to throw on the Avenger's 2 shirt. He threw his ancient fighter pilot jacket on the ground, and started south. None of this was making any sense. He kept seeing the same faces over and over again. He'd turn down an alley, and have to redirect because someone was either taking a piss or running towards him.

Alfred staked out at least three fake ice cream trucks as he rounded a corner-

And was met with enough electricity to shock cattle back into their barns. He blinked, coughing painfully as the excruciating, prickling burn jolted through his body. Alfred tried to walk forward, but ended up falling to his knees one by one. He crawled twoards his attacker, his nails digging into the pavement as he grunted loudly. He was gifted with more voltage, the current burning the hair on his arms, feeling the fire bruise his chest. He collapsed, lying on one of the damp corners in Union Square. The last thing he saw was a very big, very tall African American man standing above him, a shadowy woman running up to him with a 'Damn he's fast'.

The man brushed it off, bending at the knees to watch Alfred "So this is America the beautiful."

Alfred blacked out, tasting harsh metal seep its way into his mouth.

Hopefully you liked it, or enjoyed it XD I'm trying to stray from my usual genres and dip my brush into more drawn out angsty stories. If you haven't guessed already, this is set one year in the future. Someone has leaked the nation's identities and the people (government) has decided to take the situation into their own hands.

Will our characters be able to handle the truth of destny? Or will they rise against their beloved people to get back what's rightfully their's?

Update will be soon.