June 22, 1941: 2:00 A.M.

The phone rang again, waking Russia up. He sat up fast, his heart pounding, remembering the nightmares that often plagued his sleep. As he picked up the phone, he remembered a scene...

It was a memory, really. Most of his dreams were. But it was the awfulness that worried him – the cold that lingered through out his body, the hunger that gnawed and twisted his body. He remembered bodies piled high, and a red flag waving in the icy breeze. Snow fell, mixing with ash and blood, become a gray-red paste underneath his feet. The Royal family had been imprisoned, and the Bolsheviks had been victorious. It was a new start! The people said. Russia had seen many new starts. They were always replaced with other 'new starts.' He saw other countries move into his house, and then there were countries he dragged back forcefully. He didn't really mind; it was nice having the company and the servants.

His dream ended with him crashing into Liet's house, grabbing him and hauling him back to his own house. Liet had pleaded and spat, but had eventually dwindled to shivering and glaring dejectedly at Russia. Russia didn't really care. He had successfully brought another country home. That feeling of weary success lingered as Russia picked up the phone.

"What?" he asked.

"Sir! The Germans have attacked!" a man's urgent voice rang through the ear piece. Russia felt the floor fall away. In the background, he could hear men's cries and shots. "What should we do, sir?" the man pleaded.

"I-... I don't know. Let me ask my superior."

He put the phone down, shocked. Germany had attacked? Insane! But he knew it had been coming for a while now. Russia pulled on a shirt and some pants, hurriedly walking to his superior's room. The more time he wasted, the more men died.

The Boss lay in his bed with his wife. "Sir," Russia whispered. "Comrade,"

The man's steely eyes flicked open. "Germany has attacked, comrade. What should we do?"

"Nothing," he said. Russia paused, and then nodded.

"Yes, sir." he walked numbly back to the phone, calling the soldier and relaying the order. He heard a terrified silence from the other end of the phone, and the soldier began to plead desperately.

"Those are the orders," Russia said evenly. He put the phone down, knowing that the soldiers would not disobey. They were still terrified of the Boss. After the Great Purge, the leader of Russia had every officer fearing him. Russia buried his face with his hands.

His house seemed to be a deck of cards, glued together with fear and oppression.

The Boss himself soon stumbled out of the room, picking up the phone. "I give you full permission to retaliate," he said harshly into the phone. "Hello?" he called. Russia closed his eyes, knowing full well it was too late. All the men at that hold were gone now. He knew the Germans would probably have wiped them out. Those men were dead.

And it had taken only a matter of hours.

Germany smiled coldly. The attack had gone like planned. And the stupid Slavs didn't even fight back... It was so easy, it was almost boring.

And this attack was going to hurt them badly. They had lost many of their already degraded tanks and planes. Many soldiers were now dead, and Russian morale was going to be surely lowered. These stupid Russian peasants thought they were unbeatable, when in reality they were sitting ducks, waiting to be shot and butchered. Germany's lips curled. Disgusting. This lower level country, so beneath him.

Why was he even here? He wondered. His cold blue eyes took in the tundra. He didn't need the German people here. There were none; only untermenschen. But his boss did like land. Russia certainly had a vast house. And wouldn't it be better for the world if he crushed the despicable communists once and for all? He was doing the world a favor.

"Press forward," he commanded quietly. "We've still got a long way till we reach Moscow."

Russia frantically thought. His soldiers had been beaten with little trouble. His only advantage over the ruthless Germans was the amount of men. But if the Red Army lack equipment and skill, then how was Russia supposed to win this war? He flopped onto the chair, staring blankly at the ceiling.

"I need some vodka," he muttered.

The door behind him clicked open. When he look up, he saw Belarus there, watching him with fierce eyes. She smoothed her apron and came over, brushing his face with her hand.

"Belarus," he murmured, sitting up quickly.

"I heard about the attack," she said, her husky voice worried. "Ukraine is overjoyed."

"What?" Russia asked.

"Are you alright?" Belarus pressed, leaning close, resting her arms on the chair. Russia leaned away, thinking.

"Why is Ukraine happy?" he asked.

"Because she hates your house," Belarus said. "She thinks Germany has come to free her." she shook her blonde head, her purple eyes sad. "She doesn't understand that if Germany comes to her house, he'll just want to use her. She's willing to give him anything if it means she can pray again." Belarus leaned closer, resting her forhead against Russia's. She smelled of snow and pine, and the lingering scent of blood. He was frightened of her, but he still loved his little sister.

"I thought ridding her of religion would bring us closer together..." Russia said sadly. "Why doesn't she understand that God is a barrier between our countries?"

"We don't need her," Belarus whispered. "We just need each other, big brother." She reached out with her arms, but Russia pushed her aside.

"Exactly," he said. "I'm your brother. No more of this nonsense, Belarus. There is a war going on. With Germany, our ally, none the less." Russia simmered for several seconds. "Dammit!" he yelled, hitting the wall. "How could he just turn around and attack us like that?"

"I don't know, brother." whispered his sister. She had her arms mournfully wrapped around her. "I don't know."

"What am I supposed to do?" he asked the air.