A/N: I have never gotten this many reviews/alerts/favs in one chapter. I didn't know so many people were reading it…-cries- ;w; Thank you all so much for reading, and if you reviewed, reviewing. Now I must leave to cry you a river of happy tears. oTL You readers are as wonderful as Gilbird.
Oh my, Mikhail sure is popular on the polls. :3 On a completely different topic, I think I should work on the Christmas sidestory…or something. I'm sorry, this week and most likely next week has been and will be pretty depressing. I absolutely loathe being depressed, because then I'll turn into my friend, who is so pessimistic (and has no good reason for doing so, except that she has onfce stated that she likes to, which pisses me off) it makes me want to punch her sometimes.
All grammatical/sp errors and DM linked words will be corrected after publication. DM hates me and my computer. Seriously. Also, any mistranslations are by Google Translate.
Sidestory Note: -'Have You Met Miss Jones?' takes place before CTD. The last scene is somewhere between post-CTD and pre-PTP. Hope that clears things up!
-I am afraid to post my new sidestory, Paso Doble. Well, it was written during CTD but it's ¾ completed. It's…quite weird. I'll put it up once I am done and also if I am brave enough. Because Gilbert ballroom dancing is so eccentric, now that I look at it.
Mi scusi. Potete dirmi dove sono? [Italian]—Excuse me. Can you tell me where I am?
Sei perso? [Italian]—You're lost?
Sì ... la mia amica e non riesco a trovare il nostro custode ...[Italian]—Yes...my friend and I can't find our guardian...
Non mi dica cosa fare, idiota! [Italian]—Don't tell me what to do, idiot!
Notes: -Adr/Ale pairing is currently established. I'm planning for other pairings as the story progresses.
-1960!nations will be referred to with their respective country names (even if they don't know the kids know who they are…yet), while present!nations are referred by their human names.
-The way Ivan and Alfred pronounce Mikhail's name is 'Mee-kha-EEL.' (Yes, I understand that it can be pronounced differently, but this version sounds adorably Russian, and it's important in this chapter. Kind of. By the way, the nickname version of 'Mikhail' is 'Misha.' SO CUTE! XD)
-The photo(s) Adrian has in his wallet (the one with Alec and him) are from a mall photo booth.
-I mutilated Ivan's beautiful Russian last name. BUT IT'S FOR THE GOOD OF HETALIA!
-You are about to see some Yukiko and Iggy magic in this chapter.
-I wrote way too much again. oTL Sorry for so many cliffhangers and messy descriptions, but it's the beginning of the story. Please bear with me. ;-;
We've got three doujins lined up. Or so we think. Ahahahaha~ Comment here or on Jyro's profile (suggestions? Comments? Just go watch her on dA? XD).
Oh, and before I forget: there were a lot of people telling me that they were going to draw CTD/PTP characters and such. You guys are the best, I swear. Thank you so much (again) for offering! ;A; Hope you have fun and I can't wait to see them! X3
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
November 28, 1960, Munich, 9:01 A.M...
Aloisa lifted her head, her vision blurry. Even so, she could make out the shape of an unconscious Felicita lying beside her on the concrete. It felt like someone had cracked her skull open and stapled-gunned the wound back. She tossed her hair back and shook Felicita roughly. Oh, please don't let her be dead, please wake up…
"W-what is it?" The brunette scrambled to her feet frantically and staggered about woozily. "Where are we?"
The street they were on was sparsely littered with civilians, all dressed in furry winter coats and scarves; the children followed their mothers, puffing up a cloud of cold in their gloved hands. Students clad in crisp new uniforms and polished black shoes stared at the girls in shock when they passed by. There were some Christmas decorations wrapped around store signs and windows, but it still felt pretty dreary.
Aloisa placed one hand on her forehead and leaned against a lamppost. They were on a sidewalk in some city, but definitely not in California. Her eyes wandered to a sale sign painted on a grocery store window: Bananen, 59…something…she couldn't read the last thing; it didn't look like a dollar sign or a cents symbol… Okay, this is not cool, this is just a totally screwed up dream, or maybe my parents brought me to Universal Studios when I was sleeping and they're trying to surprise me—no, that's not possible, what the hell am I thinking…
"That's German, so maybe there's a Multicultural Festival going on..." Felicita suggested, not very convinced herself. She followed Aloisa down the street fearfully. Aloisa was grateful that she didn't end up here alone, but she wasn't sure what help Felicita could be either (besides preventing her from certain insanity, of course).
Felicita gaped at the two new station wagons that drove by and tugged Aloisa's sleeve. "Something's not right, Aloisa."
"You think?" The blond pattered on nervously; she hadn't spotted anyone that seemed even remotely approachable. Everyone was frowning, their wind-swept faces appearing brittle and ashen through their knitted hats. She sighed and stopped at a coffee shop, or at least she thought it was a coffee shop. Aloisa could see people inside turning on lamps and sweeping up the shop. She was afraid to go inside, which was silly, she knew, but who knows what might happen. They were just two girls, after all…
Though Aloisa understood as much German as Mikhail did, she guessed the sign 'Geschlossen' on the store window meant that it was closed, unless that language had really long words for short English words. Now she was sincerely regretting not going to German classes. The only German words she could remember at the moment were swear words she picked up from Onkel Gilbert.
Despite what the sign probably read, a man was sitting at a table outside the store, reading the newspaper in a way so that it covered his face. A cup of steaming coffee stood untouched on the side, along with a small wrapped gift box. Aloisa scrutinized the newspaper title; it was in Italian! She could read Italian; two years of Italian classes might actually pay off!
She tapped the man on the shoulder hesitantly. "Mi scusi. Potete dirmi dove sono?" Okay, she might've gotten some words wrong, but the guy responded. His fedora covered his eyes, but Aloisa thought that he might've been looking at her.
"Sei perso?" He folded the newspaper, revealing a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Aloisa tried to not scrunch up her nose; she and her Mama had always hated the smell.
"Sì...la mia amica e non riesco a trovare il nostro custode..." Aloisa answered, literally taking the entire sentence from her Italian II textbook.
The man seemed to ponder this, then, "You speak with a slight accent. Are you American? Come on, sit down."
Aloisa and Felicita sighed in relief as they took a seat. The blond put both hands on the table and asked, "Where are we?"
"Munich." The guy took one long, final drag on his cigarette before putting it out. "I'm sorry, I don't usually smoke. It's the stress getting to me."
"Oh, it's alright." Aloisa smiled, but then her mouth dropped open. "Munich? Did you say Munich? Like in Germany?"
"There's only one Munich in the world, unless you have one in America. And by the by, don't you mean West Germany?—oh, bambina, what's wrong?" He got up and wrapped his arms around Aloisa, whose head had plopped on the table in horror. "What's the matter?"
Felicita patted Aloisa's shoulder, though she was extremely wary herself by now. "We lost our chaperon. We're sort of visiting…from California. But what—"
"Is that so? Are you here for the Christmas market? I think it'll be a nice change, it's been a difficult time for everyone here." Then he blinked, startled. "You look like fratello," he whispered. "What is your—"
Felicita's heart pounded as she tried again, "What do you mean, 'West Germany'?"
The guy raised his eyebrows, still pretty shocked but trying to keep it in check. "I don't understand. There's a West Germany and East Germany. Munich is in West Germany—w-what did I say?"
Felicita jumped up and grasped Aloisa's chair. "That's impossible! There's only one Germany! H-hold it…" She reached for the newspaper; at the corner of the page were the words, Lunedi, 28 Novembre , 1960. "Oh my god. Oh no, this is not happening. This is a joke, right? It's a joke!" She shook Aloisa's arms. "Please get up, Aloisa, this is really bad. I'm not kidding! You can be depressed all you want later, just take a look at this!"
Aloisa raised her head. "What is it?"
"Look here, oh my god, we've screwed up this time." She shoved the paper under Aloisa's nose. "Look at the date."
Slowly, her eyes widened and she shot up from her seat. "Okay. Okay. Don't panic, let me think... A-Ah—Mister, we'd very much appreciate it if you could bring us to the airport. Is the airport far from here? Or maybe you can get us a taxi or something…?" But how would she pay for it? All she had in her wallet were modern money, her ID and license, and that Mikhail-made hack credit card, and she was pretty sure that wouldn't be of any use.
The man shook his head and picked up his package. He could've been someone's lover, hanging out in a café before bringing his girlfriend her Christmas present. "No need. Come along with me. My…my friend can help you find your guardian. Is that alright with you two?"
Aloisa stuttered, "Oh, thank you, but we don't want to be a burden—"
He held up his hand. "I can't leave you two here. I'm going to pay a visit to him anyways. If he refuses…" He paused and continued sadly, "I'll think of something, I've got nothing to do anyways."
With that said, he removed his fedora and tucked it under his arm, letting a curl on the left side of his head spring out. There was a small, white bandage partly concealed behind light brown bangs. Warm chocolate brown eyes smiled at Aloisa and Felicita, though the man looked as if he hadn't slept in ages. "You can call me Feliciano. What are your names?"
And all the girls could do at that moment was to not collapse or scream at how absurd the whole situation was.
November 28, 1960, Manhattan, New York, 9:14 A.M…
"And what will he be having?"
"I will ask him when he wakes up. Thank you."
"Of course, darling."
Adrian rubbed his eyes and opened them blearily; his cheek was stinging as if a dog had torn a chunk of flesh off. "W-what's going on?"
Mikhail reclined back against his seat in relief. "Oh man, I thought you were dead."
"Where are we?" His eyes gradually adjusted to the bright lights and soon heard Christmas music playing on hidden speakers; they were inside an old fashion diner, window seat. It was warm and toasty inside, though frost glazed the window panes outside.
"We woke up over there." Mikhail pointed across the street to a park. Snowflakes lightly drifted down like feathers and children in puffy winter coats were hopping around, trying to catch a few on their tongues. "You did not wake up, so I dragged you in here. I also apologize for hitting you."
Adrian's hand flew up protectively to his face. "You slapped me?"
Mikhail shrugged. "You didn't wake up."
"What did you use, a meat tenderizer—"
The doors of the diner opened and blew in a teenage couple and a blond man in a hat. The girl laughed and clung on to her boyfriend, chattering excitedly about the snow and Christmas; the guy removed his scarf and wrapped it around her, earning a shy peck on the cheek. The other man took his seat on a booth but stared at the twins for a while. Adrian felt around his own neck but could not find Aunt Natalia's scarf. Alec must've taken it when we…when we what? Disappeared?
Mikhail had gotten up to fetch the newspaper from the rack. He tapped the date and the title several times. "Monday, November 28, 1960. 'President-elect John F. Kennedy…'" He ogled at the picture for a moment. "This is a picture of John F. Kennedy."
"There's another one?"
"No—"
The waitress came back and slid a cup of coffee to Mikhail and a small bowl of soup to Adrian. "On the house, boys. It's positively freezing out there."
Mikhail gave her a gracious smile. "Thank you, Clara." The young woman grinned and moved to another table.
"How do you know her name?" Adrian took tiny sips of his soup, hoping that it wasn't spiked, because he didn't think anyone would be nice enough to give two ragged teenagers-possibly-delinquents free food. He wondered if they looked like homeless people or something.
"Her name tag." Mikhail gulped down his coffee. "This is 1960. We are in the year 1960 in a diner in Manhattan."
Adrian's soup went down the wrong way and he coughed violently. "Huh?"
"Were you not listening at all? It must have happened when Evangeline read that Latin booklet. My watch has stopped working. Or maybe it is out of batteries."
"H-how can we be in Manhattan? Okay, I can believe that part, but not the 1960s part—"
"Adrian, look around. We came to New York in eighth grade for a field trip. The guide brought us to this park and said that this building used to be a diner before it turned into Starbucks in 1982. We have bought coffee from this Starbucks, is your memory so short?"
"Well, now that you mention it…" It did look sort of familiar outside; there was that park bench he saw last time, except it had a 'Wet Paint' sign hanging on it. And the people…okay, he believed Mikhail, the people dressed seriously vintage, complete with beehive hairdo and clothes that looked as if they'd stole them from the costume wardrobe of Back to the Future or Grease.
"What should we do then?"
"Maybe my cell phone can work here. I will call Aloisa." He took his cell out of his jeans and flipped through the selections. Adrian rummaged through his own pockets and took out his wallet, thankful that at least they had their wallets and cell phone, though it might be useless. There was some comfort in having present-time items in their possession.
"I got some dollar bills, a Starbucks gift card, my license, and a photo of me and Ale—ah…uh…" He quickly stuffed the last one back into its pocket. Luckily, Mikhail didn't notice or seem to care. But the man at the booth was still looking at them with one hand on his chin.
He exhaled tiredly. "Mikhail, it's 1960. Rotary dial phones have just been introduced, there's no way cell phones can work. Put it away, people will look at you funny—hey, what are you doing?"
The staring man had come to their table and plucked the cell phone out of Mikhail's hands to examine it. Adrian rose to his feet indignantly. "Give that back to my brother!"
"And what is this? A voice recorder?" the man asked, his voice oddly familiar. He removed his hat and rested it on their table, hissing in their faces, "Did Braginski send you?"
Cold blue eyes gazed steadily at Adrian, glinting fiercely behind glasses frames. Adrian fell back on his seat and gaped at the blond. "M-mo—ugh!"
Before Adrian could say anything, Mikhail had socked him in the stomach. If they mentioned anything, he had the feeling that the timeline would be screwed and it'd be their fault. "Please return my school project, Mister."
America's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he played around with the touch screen. "School project?"
Mikhail nodded. "I made it myself." He glanced at America warily, hoping he would buy it and leave.
"What's your name, boy?"
Mikhail gulped. "This is my brother Adrian, and I'm Mikha—I mean, Michael." It wouldn't do for him to pronounce his name the way it should be said, since his mom flared up at the mere mention of Braginski. He didn't think saying it in an accent would give him brownie points either. 1960…is around the beginning of the Cold War, is it not?
America slid into the booth and tapped his fingers on the table. He returned Mikhail's cell phone, but he was gawking at Adrian. Not good, not good, why is he sitting down, why isn't he leaving? "What did you say your name was again?"
Adrian gulped, one arm around his tummy where Mikhail had punched; he knew what would happen if he said the wrong thing. The last time he tried to hide a bad test score from his mom was in third grade, and even then he'd had his little elementary school ass blow to tidbits. "Adrian. Adrian Br…uh…rooks. Adrian Brooks. Yeah."
America took one last stare at the twins, then relaxed visibly. He laughed, "Okay then. Sorry 'bout scaring you two like that, I was just making sure. Tell you what: I'll pay for anything on the menu as an apology. What do you boys want?"
This bright, sociable demeanor was quite a change from his previous somber expression, but neither boy questioned it. Mikhail approached with another inquiry, slightly more urgent this time, "There is no need for that. What do you mean you were 'just making sure'?"
America knocked him playfully on the forehead, reminding him terribly of his mother, and replied, "Don't you know why your school and everywhere else are having these bomb drills?"
"I-I guess so…?"
America huffed. "Maybe you're too young to understand. But man, shouldn't you be in high school right now? Don't tell me you're cutting class!"
The blond shook his head. "No, we are not from here. We…" He wetted his lips, unsure of what to tell and what not to tell. "…we are visiting from California. But we can't find our parents. But what is it about the bomb drills?"
"Really now?" America's eyes twinkled, interested. "Two boys lost in New York in a diner. Well then, I'll have to take you to your parents, wouldn't I?"
Shit. "That's not necessary—"
America proceeded to pull both Mikhail and Adrian up with both arms and led them outside, shouting, "Bye, Clara! See you tomorrow!"
The waitress smiled. "Goodbye, Mr. Jones!" She winked at the boys. "Goodbye, darlings!"
The late autumn wind whipped brutally against the boys, both extremely underdressed for the weather and somewhat terrified. "You don't have to—"
America only chortled, "I do have to. It's part of my job of being a hero! Here, Adrian, take my scarf. You're going to freeze to death by the time we finish looking around. You can call me Alfred, by the way."
Adrian wondered if his mom was used to doing this, and by 'this' he meant making friends with suspicious teens. Snow finally stopped falling, though it had accumulated a great deal long ago. This felt strange: America holding their hands and sauntering down streets filled with Christmas lights and such. They'd done this before with their parents when they were little; Alfred and Ivan once took them to a Christmas market in France when they were in elementary school. Honestly, the teens forgot where exactly in France, but they remembered that it was snowing.
There were lights hung all around the stalls and Christmas trees planted strategically in the spaces between stalls for tourists and their photo-taking needs. But the kids paid little attention to that, for they were busy checking out numerous stalls. Adrian was running around like crazy, swinging his newly bought teddy bear in the air like it was a plane.
Mikhail beamed at his mother, pointing to several different pastries arranged on the table. "Can I have a cookie?"
Allie grinned at her son and paid the lady. "Sure."
Ivan leaned it. "Perhaps your French has deteriorated since the last meeting."
His wife bristled, a chocolate cookie dangling from her lips. "That's nonsense. But at least I'll have some comfort in knowing that your French is worse than mine. Speaking of languages, Mikhail is talking like you now. Hell, he's got your accent. You better teach him how to speak English right or I'll—"
Ivan smirked, ignoring her last comment. "Would you like to hear my French?"
Allie chomped her cookie right in Ivan's face and followed her sons. "No." But she turned around, as if propelled by a last minute decision. "Not now."
Okay, forget about the snow and precious childhood memories. The thing they seriously remembered the most was their mom's outfit. They had a vague image, but Adrian was sure that it had been a short hooded red dress with white furry things around the hems, and brown boots that went up all the way to her mid thigh. Sort of like a female Santa costume, but a lot less kid-friendly.
"What are you two thinking about?"
Adrian thought he would have had a heart attack. "N-nothing."
America cocked his head. "Oh. Okay. You kinda zoned out there for a second—what is it, Michael?"
Mikhail stopped poking America and looked straight up at him. This was his mother's face, yet he couldn't say anything, lest get themselves in bigger trouble. "About the bomb drills…"
"What about them?" He hummed a quick tune absently as they walked on, peering into alleys and different shops, looking for the boys' 'parents.'
"What are they for?"
"You don't know?"
"N-no…?"
America sighed and leaned in, whispering, "Okay. We are not getting along with Russia as of late. My boss might not think it's a real war, but at least some people in the army know what they're doing. The drills are preparation, just in case Russia decides to destroy the universe."
"Then who's Braginski—?"
America laughed quietly, puffing out wisps of white. Strangely, the streets had cleared, save for two or three cars passing by, though civilians should be milling around the sidewalk at this time. America didn't notice though, since all of his attention were focused on Adrian. "Your brother looks like him, I thought maybe he might be related. But that's impossible, who'd ever want to have a kid with Braginski?" He practically spat out the last word.
Adrian cracked a weak smile for the sake of his mom, who was observing them out of the corner of his eyes. "Haha, I guess you're right. B-but who exactly is Braginski?" The weather was enough to freeze Adrian; despite wearing America's scarf, he did only have on jeans and short-sleeves.
The blond actually paused to contemplate this. "He's…the country's enemy, just as I am theirs. I'll tell you two later, if we get a chance. But don't tell me I didn't warn—"
Adrian pressed on, "Then who are you—woah, what are you doing?" The boys fell backwards when the American suddenly whipped around with his gun poised. "Where did you get that?"
America pointed his gun at an invisible target and muttered under his breath, "I let my guard down. Get down." He glared at the boys, a brief, hard stare. "Well?"
Adrian and Mikhail did so, for fear that America would inexplicably turn his gun on them. The blond seemed to be concentrating on a particular spot beyond the park; he was about to shoot (the kids heard the click of the trigger), but he hesitated and glanced at the boys shivering on the iced sidewalk. A rustling noise from a nearby tree made the American jump in alarm; without warning, America unwillingly slung the twins on his shoulders as if they weighed no more than pillows and began sprinting in the opposite direction.
If Adrian wasn't scared before, he certainly was now. "Let me down! What the hell are you doing? Where are we going—"
America continued fleeing down the street in panic. "I'm saving your life, so zip it!"
"What do you mean—w-wha…what is it?" Adrian followed where Mikhail was pointing and silently directed his gaze over there. Beyond sidewalk trees and benches, he thought he could make out the shape and face of someone…
As they moved away faster and faster, Adrian saw who his mom had been running from: tall, immense, violet eyed with platinum bangs, armed with a pipe which he was lightly twirling with one hand. He was the one who listened to Alfred's every single complaint with a sincere smile and accompanied him to every McDonald's restaurant they happened to drive past…
America reached the corner of the street with a sharp turn, and the bewildered face of Ivan Braginski vanished behind a building.
7:23 P.M., November 28, present, Evangeline's house, basement…
"So you're saying my daughter is missing in an alternate universe, is that right, England?"
Ludwig leaned on the table, his arms crossed and brows furrowed in either disbelief or confusion, or both. Feliciano was at his side, looking worriedly from one nation to another; today he dressed simply in jeans and a white button up shirt, as was all the other countries. Antonio was doing his best to hold a rabid Lovino from tearing Arthur's limbs off, comforting him in Spanish and being rapidly shot down each time with furious, nearly unintelligible Italian.
Arthur's hands covered his face, hiding his frantic expression. Where was Francis? He had said he would drive Evangeline and Alec home from school—okay, maybe not Alec, since he'd be with Adrian—but it was almost seven thirty with no sign of the Frenchman showing up.
Yukiko explained, "Not in another world. They're here, but in another year."
Kiku's finger tapped his lips lightly; they were supposed to return to Japan this evening, but they couldn't possibly go when things were in this state. He would need to call Heracles later… One thing he couldn't wrap his mind around was how Yukiko knew the location of the kids. Even he didn't know, and he was sure that Heracles wasn't familiar with magic…or was he?
Alfred shrugged on his bomber jacket and laced his boots, stuffing his dress into his bag. He knew it was a good idea to bring spare clothing, even if Iggy thought it was weird. He could actually sense something major was about to happen (what a shocker), and he didn't think it would be appropriate to strut around in heels in their current situation. He'd called Ivan over thirty minutes ago, but the man had not appeared.
As if on cue, Ivan stomped down the stairs in a hurry, his hair slightly mussed and face paler than usual. Alfred placed his hands on his waist impatiently; he didn't mean to be rude, but he was getting panicky. "Where have you been—"
"Detained," he said and pressed his lips on Alfred's forehead in an attempt to appease the American. Arthur pretended to gag and Feliciano clasped his hands together in admiration, despite how awful he was feeling. "I was delayed by someone—"
A voice rang out from the first floor, "Big brother! I know you're in here!"
All the nations froze as Natalia stuck her head inside the room and slid down the stair railings. Her usual blue dress and white apron were replaced by a red-and-green ensemble that made her even more intimidating. She landed nimbly on the bottom steps and adjusted the red ribbons tied into her hair. "Hello, America."
Alfred stiffened; she was being unnaturally courteous, since he handed seen any dangerous weaponry yet, which meant she must have something worse in mind. "Good to see you, Belarus." He scanned her outfit, itching to kick Ivan (who was using Alfred as a barrier) back to his feet to face his sister like a man for once. "Nice dress. So what brings you to California…again?"
"It is the holiday season. My boss gave me a week off," she said briefly. "I meant to show this to Adrian. He said he liked Christmas colors when we talked on the phone." (In reality, at that time Adrian was about to drop unconscious due to fright and just blabbered whatever came into his mind.)
Yukiko raced to wrap herself around Natalia's legs, in spite of her mother's obvious horror. How Yukiko was unable to see Natalia the way everyone else did will forever remain a mystery to Kiku. "Hello, Miss Natalia!"
Natalia lowered her lashes and patted Yukiko's hair. "Where are Mikhail and Adrian?" she brusquely asked Alfred.
Lovino answered spitefully, "England sent them to 1960."
"I didn't do it—!"
"Now, now, Lovi—"
"Non mi dica cosa fare, idio—"
Natalia blinked, pivoting on her heel to face the Italian. "You are the one my ex-assistant met." She inclined her chin a quarter of a centimeter. "I apologize. I had meant for her to go to my brother's house. She had apparently read the incorrect address."
Lovino scowled, though under normal circumstances he would've freaked out if Natalia talked to him. "What are you saying?"
"Lisa. Lisa Berns." The girl redid her hair ribbons nonchalantly. "She was an excellent messenger when she was younger. But…" Natalia hesitated, as if in disappointment. "…humans wear out so quickly. It seems that the underworld has taken a toll on her mind—"
"Are you kidding me?" Lovino struggled with renewed fervor in Antonio's hold, his face turning redder and redder as he hit the man holding him captive repeatedly. "'Has taken a toll on her mind? Don't give me that bullshit, she's fucking lost her head! I should've known you sent that monster to kill my daughter—"
Lovino's palm ended up crushing Antonio's left cheek and whatever the hell the Spaniard was originally saying became gibberish. "Th'rsh n' ne'd for shwea'ng, Lobi—pfft—jush c'alm dow—"
Natalia narrowed her eyes as the previous information registered in her head. "1960?"
Arthur's fingers drummed the bookshelves, bringing up a tiny storm of dust particles. There was no use waiting for Francis, he wouldn't know what to do either. He wanted to yell for the Italian to cease jumping on the floorboards; the basement might've been remodeled, but the motion was making the furniture shake. He trained his gaze on the ratty old cloth covering that century-old mirror frame, wishing there was some magical portal they could open up to get the kids back—wait a minute—
Francis then crashed inside the basement and momentarily killed Arthur's train of thoughts. His blond locks were wild in disarray, panting hard like he'd been running. "I'm…I'm home…mon che—"
"Where have you been? I called your number ten million times—"
Francis gave a few short puffs before straightening himself. "My cell phone ran out of batteries. And as to where I've been, I was in Starbucks, but I have a very good reason for that—"
"1960…" Natalia repeated offside. "Nineteen… Sixty…" It was then her expression became morbidly distorted as her nails dug into Arthur's shoulders. "Bring them back now."
'A-alright, alright. I think I know how…" He grabbed a fistful of the old fabric and tore it off, revealing a scarred wooden mirror frame. Alfred carelessly brought it to the center of the room and sat in the 'O' shape structure like it was a swing.
"What's this, Iggy?"
Arthur sighed. "If you want the ghost of Anne Boleyn to come after you, go ahead and sit on it a little longer."
Alfred immediately scrambled off, dusting off his pants. "Jesus, Iggy, tell me that earlier, won't you?"
Francis ran his fingers along the deep mahogany woodwork. "This was made in France."
Arthur didn't retaliate with some smart response, but nodded solemnly. "She brought the mirror to England with her. As you all know, she was, um, beheaded by King Henry the VIII, and I don't think she's ever forgiven the world for her death." He went on, despite acknowledging Alfred's look of absolute terror. "She smashed the mirror a few days before she was sent to the Tower of London. Oh, come on, America, I was joking about the ghost. If she even had a ghost then it'd be in London. Anyways, I was thinking we can use it as a portal or something, since I've used it before to summon—uh…never mind. I think we can use this to get to the kids, but I'm not sure how exactly…"
Yukiko touched the mirror frame warily and elicited a sudden crackle of bright light. Alfred shrieked and Arthur's eyes shot up. "What was that?"
She shook her head, her mouth slightly open in horror. "I-I don't know—"
"Do it again."
Yukiko did so, and this time she rested her hand gently on the mirror frame; a mist of white light began to fill the space where the mirror should've been. It reached halfway before it stopped and started to ebb away. "I think…I think it wants us to go inside."
Alfred had scrambled onto Ivan's shoulders and was peering above his head, much to the displeasure of Natalia. "What wants us to go inside?"
The white light was receding again, faster and faster. Arthur slammed his own hand on the other side of the frame and the empty mirror space immediately became completely filled. Lovino screamed, "You want us to go through that? I bet you don't even know where it leads to, bas—"
But Ivan, eager to evade Natalia, barreled right into the mirror space with Alfred on his back. "I volunteer to go first!"
Both of Arthur's hands were firmly locked on the mirror frame; he didn't think Yukiko could hold it long enough. If the portal closed while Russia and America were still halfway through…he wouldn't think about that for now, but it might have something to do with severe mutation and bodily dislocation. "America, get off of Russia!"
Alfred panicked, and being the idiot he was, he latched on Ivan even tighter. "Commie bastard, don't bring me in there—AGHH!"
Yukiko strained as she felt a sliver of electricity run up her spine when Ivan arm went across. "One at a time!" she shouted. The two were moving too slowly inside; it was as if the barrier was semi-solid.
Natalia leaped madly for her brother, her mouth twisted in a feral smile. "Big brother! Wait for me!"
She crashed into Ivan's back, and the motion alone was enough to propel the three of them some more into the portal, as easy as anything. The moment Natalia went through the frame somehow made a burst of searing white line reach out and cut Yukiko's palm. She released her hold on the wood, clutching her hand and mewling in pain. Kiku rushed to her side, his eyes wide in shock, staring at the red, jagged mark on her hand.
Arthur hadn't been touched, since he had more experience and a higher endurance, but he guessed it was only a matter of time before he was hurt, especially when there was just one person keeping the barrier up. Three people going through the portal had slowed down the process, though Ivan and America were already inside. He was almost certain that if the light disappeared it would slice off half of Natalia's body, not that he was complaining, but that would make things overly complicated. "Germany!" he yelled. "Kick them in!"
"Huh?"
"Just do it!"
"But what if—"
Feliciano pushed a startled Ludwig aside and marched in with a chair. "Ludwig! Really!" Not willing to get in any sort of contact with Natalia, he swung the chair and sent all three nations careening into who-knows-where.
Instantly, the remaining white light shot out a tremendous amount of light towards the ceiling and broke the basement light bulbs, leaving six nations in utter darkness. Even Lovino fell silent; they could hear the bulb shards clatter like rain on the floor and smell burning wood.
Yukiko's hand was turning numb. "…I think we broke it."
