AN: All right, all right. You got me. I wrote a story with a PLOT, and the anime rarely has any plot to it. I just couldn't stop myself.

Chapter 2: In which Russia Is Not Amused, Britain's first two plans go pear-shaped (in different respects of the word), and everyone hates the crab.

"In other words," said Britain, stabbing the sand with a driftwood pointer, "We have no other option but to get him back." He flipped his free hand palm up, in the traditional gesture of oration. "We're rescuing America because that way, he'll owe us, and he'll have to do whatever we say." He jabbed the end of the stick towards the other nations. "But if we don't rescue him," he went on, "Who knows what could happen? He could give away all our secrets to the Axis in a moment of weakness. Maybe they're trying to extract information from him already. They could be torturing him in unspeakable ways or starving him or forcing him to sleep out in the cold all tied up..."

"Oui, oui, Britain, we all know how worried you are about the boy," said France. His tone oozed boredom like the way the mango he was holding oozed juice. "If you have a point to make, then by all means-"

"My point," Britain said sharply, slashing the pointer around to smack the piece of fruit out of France's hand, "Is that the most important thing to do right now is make a plan to save America. And I am not worried about him," he snapped, nearly poking France's eye out with the stick. "I don't care what happens to that little twat. What I care about is winning this war, and we can't win without America."

"That is true," said China primly. "I need him to keep Japan away from my borders. But unless you have a plan about what we're going to do to rescue him..."

"That's what I was getting to!" Britain exclaimed. "What do you think I've been doing with this stick the whole time?"

"Hm... I think scraping it in sand a lot," said Russia. "And... pointing it at people?"

"Scraping it in the sand? I was drawing a tactical map, you blind oafs!"

All the other nations stood up to try and get a better view of the purported diagram.

"That's a map?" asked China incredulously. "Then what on Earth is that symbol supposed to be? A beached whale with its insides spilling out?"

"Non, non, China, I believe it is a representation of an abstract principle..."

"Don't be stupid, France. Look, that would be its fin-"

"What would be the point of drawing a whale...?"

Britain stamped his foot. "It's not a bloody whale! That bit over there isn't even part of it! How can you not...?"

"I know," said Russia, with a toothy smile. "It's supposed to be me, isn't it? Look, that is my scarf which I am wearing right now, see?" He awarded an especially evil stare to Britain, who was starting to feeling very exposed, then turned to China and France.

The two nations looked at each other, as they realized how this was not going to go well for either of them. They stood in a kind of horrified trance for a few seconds.

Then China frowned. "No... that's not it... look at that tail..."

"What tail?" demanded Britain, and then he looked down. There was a little line through his drawing where a crab had scuttled through on its way to the ocean.

"You blasted crustacean!" Britain yelled, chasing after it. "You sideways-strutting, stupid scrap of shelled sea-spam! You ruined my map!"

(Cue opening credits)

Britain's Rescue Plan Journal!

Plan A!: The Stealth Strike!

"A moonless night has fallen over these accursed shores," whispered Britain, in his eeriest voice. He cracked his knuckles one by one. "And now the time has come to venture through the dark-"

"What are you talking about?" China snapped. "Stop acting so strange and put these on."

Britain turned around hurriedly and looked at the package of clothes China was holding out. "Why? What's wrong with my uniform? It's dark green! That uniform's dark green! What's the difference?"

"Well, according to Russia, it 'isn't the right dark green'... just humor him, Britain, he spent the whole day making these."

"Who ever said he was the best spy?" demanded Britain irritably, as he took the clothes. "What am I, then? Chopped liver? I tell you, there's not one of you lot who's better at covert operations than-"

"Me!" Russia's creepy smile seemed to appear out of the gloom like the grin of a Cheshire cat. "So, you like the clothes?"

Britain shrieked. "Where the heck did you come from?" He blinked, and then spun around. "Where... where is he?"

"Right here," Russia told Britain from right behind him. "See how clever? So hard to see, da? That is why I make spy outfits. Oh. I am forgetting. I have to fetch some things. Goodbye for now." And then he seemed to vanish again.

Britain was quivering. "I-is he st-t-ill angry about th-that d-drawing?" he stuttered.

"He is always angry about something," China said, shuddering as well. "He just never shows it until he gets you."

"Gets you?" Britain squeaked. "What do you mean, gets you? Oi! China! Where did you-?"

But China had disappeared as well. Britain figured now would be a very good time to put on these camouflage clothes. They really did seem to work.

~0~0~ Hetalia ~0~0~

The night really was dark. And, to top it off, a dank mist had risen off the ocean, so it was officially impossible to see anything more than a few feet in front of you.

A few feet was just enough. America had been heroically captured, and now was his chance to heroically escape. With... a rusty nail that had washed up on the beach. Well, you had to make do, right? He stuck his foot out an inch further, wishing that he was the kind of hero with stretchy superpowers, like Mr. Fantastic or something.

"C'moooonnn..." he whispered. "Al... most... theeeerrree..." The tip of his boot was just a hair's width away from the scrap of metal.

Then something scuttled over his foot, and he let out a muffled yelp and yanked his leg back. The something flipped off his boot, somehow managed to pick up the nail, and scrambled away.

After he got over the shock from witnessing an unpleasantly improbable event, America sat in his chains and seethed. "I'll get you for that, crab," he swore. "You and I are officially arch nemesises."

Something about how that last word had come out sounded wrong, but he couldn't quite put a finger to it. "Nemesis... esss..." he tried. "Nemeses? Nemesi?"

There was a weird rustling in the bushes.

"Not again!" he muttered. "From now on, I hate weird rustling!"

"Ahhh," said Italy, who had suddenly appeared out of the mist right next to America's tree. He was holding a lantern. "You mean like the kind where people have funny macho names and dress up in stupid clothing and try to strangle each other!"

America stared at the little nation. "What?" he said, bemused. "No, no! Not weird wrestling! Weird... ugh, never mind..."

"Oh. Well, I just came over to say that I made dinner and... would you like to have some pasta?" He stuck out a hand, and on it was a plate (where did they get plates?) heaping with spaghetti.

Every bone and organ in America's body (most powerfully his stomach) itched to scream, "HELLS YES I WANT IT!" but his brain was also yelling at him, Don't trust the pasta! Remember last time! Don't eat it! It could be drugged or poisoned or filled with broken glass! This is the Axis of Evil here! Don't trust their damn pasta!

"I'm not hungry," said America, looking hungrily at the plate. His stomach growled.

"Oh, okay," said Italy, looked disappointed. "Should I leave it here for you, then?"

"No," America said, before his stomach could take control of his brain. "I don't want your pasta."

Italy shrugged and wandered away. "Hey, Germany!" he called. "America doesn't want his pasta! Can I have it?"

As America salivated and thought of food, the bizarre rustling started up again. He tried to see through the trees, but it was so dark and foggy, he couldn't even see what was right in front of his face. And Italy's lantern had knocked out his night vision.

There was a smack! and a half-muffled curse word. "Get off me- oh, bugger!"

"Hey..." said America. His heart soared. "Is that you? No way! Oh my g- Britain?"

"Shh! Don't talk so loud, you fool!" hissed a voice fiercely back, but it was too late. Across the beach, Japan and Germany had heard him and leapt to their feet, racing over to the treeline. America tried to put out a foot to trip one of them, but missed his chance in the dark.

There was the sound of a scuffle coming from the forest (or, from where the forest should be, unless it had gotten up and walked away - America really couldn't see enough to tell). He listened to it with a dumbstruck expression. Somehow he'd gotten into his head the idea that they weren't coming for him. But there they were.

"Kick Axis!" America shouted. "Come on! Beat 'em up!" But it was really hard to tell who was beating up whom.

Eventually, Germany and Japan emerged, both looking very confused. America made a face at them and stuck out his tongue.

For some odd reason, it almost sounded like there was still fighting going on, even with the two Axis nations out of the forest. America tried to trip up Germany, again, but missed, again. And then that horrible crab started to crawl up his leg.

~0~0~ Hetalia ~0~0~

Britain half-walked, half-crawled back to the Allied end of the island, which America had once named the Beach of Freedom, Democracy and Justice. Once, Britain would have scoffed at the name, but now it almost seemed... sweet.

Much sweeter than the giant lump swelling on his head.

"So sorry about that," Russia was saying, patting him on the shoulder in a kindly, or, "kindly" way. "You put some ice on it, okay?"

For any other nation, Britain would be cursing him out right now, but... well, being nearly strangled and pummeled to death in the dark by a giant menacing figure definitely put a curb in his usual foul-mouthed enthusiasm.

"So, anyone want to explain why that went pear-shaped?" asked Britain, slumping onto his mattress (it was all his now, he couldn't help thinking). "And why we all started going for each other instead of the Axis?"

Everyone knew the answer. It was because those damn invisibility suits had worked too well.

France groaned and fell to the ground face-first, muttering something in his own language. He looked up for a second to say, "If anyone tries to tell me that I have to do that another time I shall never speak to them again for my entire life," and then his blond head hit the sand.

"Just out of curiosity, who hit me in the stomach and stepped on my fingers?" asked China.

"Um. That could have been me," said Britain. "Terribly sorry, and so on." He closed his eyes and put a hand over his face. Then, Britain jarred and nearly had a heart attack. Russia was suddenly looming over him, forcibly pulling his head back. "Ggghhh," Britain rasped.

"Ice," said Russia brightly, and pressed a huge freezing block onto Britain's forehead. "Here you go. All better, da?"

" 'ank you," grunted Britain, his expression a mask of terror. "Y-yes. B-better." But he was thinking, You hit me on purpose, didn't you, you red Commie bastard? You knew it was me.

Once Russia had disappeared again, Britain sidled up to China. "How can you stand sleeping right next to that bloke?" he whispered. "How do you bear it?"

China pointed at his and Russia's mattress. "Simple. Same thing as I did thousand of year ago. Great Wall."

"Of pillows," said Britain. He looked at the soft line that divided the mattress neatly in two. "A Great Wall of Pillows."

"Exactly. It keeps them out very nicely."

"I see," said Britain. "And, I think we need a Rescue Plan B."

~0~0~ Hetalia ~0~0~

Plan B!: The Fruit Man!

It was mid-noon again. Britain was putting the finishing touches on what he believed to be his greatest masterpiece yet. Of course, France had helped him slightly with the artistic aspect, but he wouldn't ever admit that.

"Doesn't it look just like him?" he said, grinning, sticking a little fern on the top right where the lock of hair called Nantucket was on America's own head.

The decoy America had been almost lovingly crafted out of burlap, fruit, vines, stick, shells, and anything else Britain could get his hands on. A coconut shell, some rocks, and several other bits of fruit made the contours of the face, and pineapple leaves and seaweed made up Fruit America's hair. Wire and sea glass had been used to make Texas, his spectacles.

"I believe you are far too proud of this, Angleterre," France told him skeptically. "And it is a waste of our good fruit, don't you think?"

"We're using it for a good cause," Britain said irritably. "And the island has plenty left. It bloody well grows on trees, doesn't it?"

"If you say so," France shrugged. Then he gave Britain a smirk. "I never would have thought you would be that, er, knowledgeable about l'Amerique and his appearance. You have reproduced him exactement."

"Of course I know what he looks like!" Britain snapped. "He used to live with me, you dolt. Now go make yourself useful somehow. If we're really going to make them think America's escaped then we've got to find some way of getting him, too."

China and Russia strolled up. "I think I like this America more than the real one," said Russia. "He is so quiet and easy to control."

"Honhon... I bet 'e doesn't steal bedcovers," said France with a wink, and Britain guiltily remembered how warm and comfortable it had been last night, with the mattress all to himself.

"And he is so nutritionally healthy," China added with a chuckle, reaching out to poke the banana nose. Britain slapped his hand away.

"Don't touch that bit! It's not pinned in place yet!" Britain spread his arms out to protect his hard work, and shooed the others away.

Once they had reluctantly wandered off, Britain turned back to the decoy. "Don't let them get to you, Fruit America," he said consolingly, putting a hand on the stick-and-sacking shoulder. "They're just jealous of your good looks and inherent usefulness." Britain adjusted leaf-Nantucket. "The only opinion that matters is mine? Really? Well, that's very sweet of you to say that, Fruit America..."

Britain heard the unpleasant sound of suppressed mirth coming from behind him. "Piss off, frog!" he yelled, mortified.

~0~0~ Hetalia ~0~0~

If the stupid crab hadn't stolen the nail, America would be free by now. That was what he liked to tell himself. He sat in the hot sun on the hot sand and fried a little, both from irritation and from UV light.

The Axis Powers were so sickeningly dull. Italy ran around and swam and sang songs and snuggled Germany, who pretended to be annoyed but, as far as America could guess with his limited social senses, probably wasn't at all. Germany himself didn't do much but sit around and read books and make battle plans that America couldn't see and wouldn't understand if he could see them, and Japan seemed to like doing absolutely nothing as well.

"You guys are so boring!" America shouted at them. "Get a life!" Then he sat back and listened to his stomach grumble. He started to wish that he'd accepted some food after all, but then he reminded himself that he giving in to base needs was exactly what they would want him to do.

If he could catch that crab, he might be able to kill it and eat it. It might require some extreme contortions of his limbs to bring his hands to his mouth, but the satisfaction might be worth it. Even if the thing was raw. Although, if he let it sit out in the sun long enough, it might actually cook itself. America began to try working his arm out of its chain, because even if that wouldn't help him escape, he could still take revenge on that damn crab. It seemed to keep showing up out of the corner of his eye every so often. He was sure it was the same one.

~0~0~ Hetalia ~0~0~

Evening came, and the sun set.

America was hungrier than before. Down the beach, the Axis had lit a fire and were cooking something. The smell of food wafted its way up to America, mocking him with its deliciousness. Even if they did offer him any, he wouldn't take it (so he told himself). But it looked like they weren't thinking about their prisoner right now, anyway. Which was good, because America had freed one arm, and could now reach all the way to the tree line.

One by one, the stars came out. There would be three nights of no moon - this was the second, now.

And now America smelled something else. It was that funny sweet scent again, one of the ones that screamed eat me! in the loudest possible voice.

"That smells like it's coming from over in the bushes," America said to himself. "How freaky is that? I wonder what's in there?" He reached out as far as he could, straining against the chains, and scrabbled around.

His hand emerged with a giant floppy mess of bramble and sticks and who knew what else. It was weirdly shaped, and a bit rumbled up by being dragged out of the bushes so unkindly, but America wasn't paying attention to that. He didn't notice the bizarre shape, because the smell of fruit was much more powerful. His vision was practically swimming with hunger.

"Awesome!" He began to pull the edible bits out of the lump, which within seconds had lost quite a bit of its original shape. Throwing the rest back into the greenery, America shoveled the fruit into his mouth, relishing the texture of the sugary flesh.

Soon, America was licking the last of the juice off his fingers, almost feeling content. Perhaps it was simply from hunger, but he felt he had never tasted anything so delicious in his life.

He was in his own little self-satisfied world of bliss, and so he didn't hear what someone else in his position might have - a sudden horrified gasp coming from the region of the bushes where the weird lumpy thing had been.

Britain raged all the way back to the Beach of FDJ, carrying the body of his late creation in his arms. "He bloody well ate Fruit America's head!" he was howling. "Ate it clean off! That murderer! I'll never forgive him!"

TO BE CONTINUED~

(Cue credits and Marukaite Chikyuu)

Now the Allies were sitting around their campfire, watching Fruit America's ashes ascend to the heavens.

"Do not despair, Britain," said France soothingly. "These things happen sometimes. 'e lived a good life."

"Oh, shut up," Britain grumbled, kicking the sand.

China thoughtfully took a bite out of what had once been Fruit America's nose. (They'd salvaged what they could.) "Britain, your plans are getting more and more absurd. You are starting to act just like America used to."

Britain jumped to his feet, pointing an accusing finger at China. "You take that back! I'm nothing like that cold-hearted cannibal!"

"Your ideas are," said China, unfazed. He looked at Britain admonishingly. "You are simply letting your emotions take control of you."

"Emotions?" Britain stamped up and down in fury, his arms suddenly waving about wildly. "I haven't got any blasted emotions in this! I don't have any emotions about America! Why do you people always think that I have some kind of thing with America? I don't even know what the hell you're talking about! I don't..."

"I didn't say anything about how you feel about America," China said crisply, crossing his arms. "My point is simply that you are trying too much and pushing yourself too hard." He looked at Britain suspiciously. "So, why would you think I was-?"

"Oh, there you go!" Britain yelled, throwing up his hands, and then slumped back onto his seat on the driftwood log.

The fire burned and died down, and the Allies began to prepare to go to sleep. As he stood up, a thought struck Britain, and he called the others over. "Listen," he said. "I know my last two plans didn't go very well, mostly because of unforeseen complications, but we can do more than that, can't we?"

"Can we?" asked France, scratching his head.

"Yes!" Britain dropped his voice to a whisper. "We've tried things the soft way, but I think now it's time to show the Axis what we're capable of." He smacked a fist into his palm, and his green eyes glittered. "They've left us no other choice but to use..." Britain's eyes darted back and forth, and he licked his lips. "Dark magic."