Canada was wondering exactly when he'd become such a fool. His guess was currently narrowed down to somewhere between "Wow, I get to be a nation now?" and "Get in the bag."

Well, timeline aside, he was certainly useless, stupid, foolish and naïve, as he'd managed to convince himself. .Normally he had a little more pride – quietly, of course – but when your wrists are tied and you're locked in a tiny, square office during a terrorist takeover, you can't do much outside of self-deprecation.

"This is all my fault," he moaned.

"I agree," Russia said tiredly, leaning his head against the desk.

"I don't know why I still help him, the way he acts!" Canada continued, and he would have wrung his hands if they weren't cuffed so expertly.

"I certainly don't understand it," Russia agreed, closing his eyes.

"But I can't not help him" Canada contradicted, burying his head into his knees. "He's my brother."

"Cliché, but truthful," Russia mumbled.

"I'm sorry to drag you into this," the other nation burst loudly. His fellow captive hardly flinched, merely grunting a dreary acknowledgement.

"…There's a spider in your hair." Canada said.

Russia let out a little shriek and swiped at his face blindly with his bound hands, jumping nearly out of his skin. Canada's eyes widened as he dodged the flailing country.

"Hey," he said with uncontrolled wonder, "you were actually listening to me, weren't you?"

Russia was a little preoccupied, stuttering "whereisitwhereisitwhereisit?" at the top of his lungs while brushing away at the invisible, non-existent spider. Canada flicked a tendril of Russia's hair and the other country shuddered, flinched, and relaxed with a relieved sigh.

"Did you get him?"

"Yes," Canada lied, preoccupied.

"Good," Russia breathed, and he slumped back against the desk.

Silence reared its ugly head. A dry spell of wordless awkwardness stretched between them. Canada coughed in desperation. "So, uh," he grumbled quietly, "you were actually listening to what I said?"

"Of course," Russia said brightly, drawing his long legs up and resting his bound wrists on his knees. "I always pay attention when someone talks about America."

Canada felt a chill creep down his spine. He'd quite forgotten with whom he was sitting. Hoping he hadn't given Russia anything to work with, he retreated into silence again. "You know, Canada," Russia purred, "we're not terribly different."

The voice was cold like winter and grated raw on his nerves like wind. The full might of the Soviet Union quavered behind it. He felt like it was the start of a speech, crafted to be intimidating and alluring at the same time. All traces of the childish voice he usually had were gone.

"Cold winter," Russia guessed, "vast lands. Conflicting cultures. And I know you're more socialist than our brother wants to believe."

Canada swallowed.

"I have just a small question, then," Russia asked, feigning timid expression and widening his eerie eyes honestly. "Why do you stand beside your brother? Why not someone who would understand you better?"

Canada flinched away from his stare. Not that there was much else to look at – the windows were boarded up, and sunlight leaked in like heavy gold dust, leaving fractured patterns on the floor and illuminating little. The room was tiny, only just ten feet square with hardly enough space for the overturned desk they leaned against. The bare light bulb above them had shattered, and everything was either dark grey or black shadow, except for Russia's eyes, flinty and glowing. Around them were scattered papers and the broken drawers and fibers of an overturned desk. Canada inched sideways and heard a crunch of breaking glass.

"I dunno, I guess I just do," he muttered.

Russia pouted just a little. "Does he frighten you?" the voice became dangerous. "More than I do?"

Despite the obvious threat, Canada had to laugh a bit. "My brother? Frighten me?" he chuckled. "He's not scary, he's just stupid. And a little bit annoying." He laughed again at the understatement.

Breaking at last from obviously practiced tactics, Russia seemed baffled. "He's violent, well armed, argumentative and arrogant. And he's your neighbour! He let you sacrifice yourself. How can you not be afraid of him?"

Canada actually forced himself to think about that one. "Well," he said slowly, cowering against the corner of the upended desk, "I trust him, I guess. I have to, but I do anyways. Al does the right thing," he proclaimed with growing certitude, "and he'll come and find us."

Russia seemed to think too, those purple-black eyes finally focusing on the ground in front of him. Canada sighed inwardly, feeling a little less pressured. Then with a little giggle, Russia spoke. "I'm sure you're right. He will want to return for you. The question is whether his guardian Britannia Angel will let him."

Canada looked at him quizzically, and Russia grinned.

"I'll explain," he said, "while you're helping me with these handcuffs."

XxXxX

England dropped the bag, letting out an angry huff. "Don't make me throw you in a river!" he hissed to his badly behaved mail, trying to sound threatening yet discreet. The bag twitched, trying to rearrange itself more comfortably on the concrete sidewalk.

"I'm sorry!" the bag yelped back. "Let me out!"

The older nation looked cautiously down both sides of the street, hearing chanting and marching pass them by. The crowds moved with a single mind, and, as was usually the case with minds, it was ignoring Canada. He could see human traffic bottlenecked on either side, but not a soul crossed in front of him and the alley stayed deserted.

"Yes," England allowed. "All clear."

He pulled open the drawstring and was promptly kicked so hard in the chest he flew and landed on his backside on the concrete with a winded "oof!" A foot protruded from the bag, and like a cloth egg hatching, more limbs were produced until the entire thing burst open and America tumbled onto the street.

"What the bleeding hell was that for?" England wheezed, flopping onto his back, then his side in an effort to catch his breath.

America pushed himself to sitting. "We're in a desert. There aren't any rivers."

England snorted. "You have again proven yourself a geographical idiot. And believe me, even if I had to walk to Venice from here I'd find some bloody stream to drown you in."

"Can you even walk to Venice from here?" America replied, dusting himself off.

England hung his head in his hands. The other country picked himself up and looked around. The Canadian Embassy was silent and deserted-looking. The front gates were unlocked and ajar.

"So Canada didn't make it back with us?" he asked, suddenly serious. "And Russia?"

England shook his head grimly. "I don't know. He distracted them, and I ran."

America glared at him for a second, whipped around and started off towards the end of the street. He hadn't walked two steps when a hand shot out and caught him by the wrist. Two green eyes looked up at him, questioning.

"Where are you going all of a sudden?" he asked quietly.

"To find Canada!" America said like it was the most obvious thing in the world, tugging his hand away. He got a few more steps in, and then heard a scampering of feet. He didn't turn, assuming England was following him, and then regretted it the instant he felt something smash into his back like a battering ram. Unfortunately, England didn't have the advantage of the post bag this time, and his tackle left America staggered and England clinging to his back like a monkey.

"No, you're not, idiot!" England yelled, scrambling to keep his hold while America shrieked and tried to peel him off uselessly. He continued over the cries of protest, "Are you seriously going to go get yourself captured after Canada sacrificed himself to let you free?"

"But what if he's in trouble?" America said, his hands finally latching onto England's jacket and flinging him head-over heels to the concrete. Shrieking and springing up almost instantly, England dusted himself off and quipped, "I'm sure he'll be fine. Russia's with him."

Realizing the faux pas a moment too late, England clapped a hand to his mouth and cursed. America's eyes widened and his face turned grim.

"My brother," America growled, "is in prison with that psychotic redshirt." England bit his lip and tried to form words, but America was already moving forwards.

"I'll be back in a flash," he snapped, and whirled around, breaking into a run.

"America!"

He stopped and whirled back, seeing England clench and unclench his fists methodically, red-faced.

"Oh, bloody hell," he mumbled, "I'll go back to the Embassy with you and make sure you don't kill yourself doing it."

America sprinted back and hugged him, eliciting an uncomfortable squeak. Turning even more scarlet once America put him down, England dusted himself off, pretending to be scornful. Then he noticed the growing, wicked smile on America's face.

"What?" he snapped.

"Nothing," came the reply. "It's just that we're not going to the Embassy just yet."

"But you said-" England protested helplessly.

"We'll go after I make a side-stop." America cut in. "I feel the need for some accessories."

XxXxX

Meanwhile, an exhausted and imprisoned Canada was laughing hysterically on the floor next to a mildly bemused Russia. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes as he fought through a web of snickers, snorts and giggles.

"I did not think you would find it so funny," Russia said, starting to sound just a little scared.

Canada's laughter subsided, and he explained a little sheepishly. "It's just that this is so perfect," he hiccupped, "because it's so obvious that I never thought of it! Ahhhhahahah! And it explains so much of my life, too. Teehee. And now I have something to blackmail England with! God, no wonder they ignored me, they were too worried about each other!"

He stopped. The grin froze, and fell like a stone into a sorrowful grimace.

"You still feel left out?" Russia suggested understandingly.

Canada nodded and sighed, returning to sit and resting his chin on his knees. "I guess. Maybe…they won't come back to help me."

"Well, look on the bright side," Russia said, setting into a factual yet optimistic expression, like a qualified counselor. "If they don't come for you, we could always break out together. And then you could become one with me!" he concluded brightly.

Canada's expression neutralized and he produced a single, deadpan "No."

Russia pouted.

At that exact moment, the door burst free of its hinges and faceplanted on the carpet. Outdoor light blinded them for a moment, so they could hardly discern the faces of the twelve figures that charged in and surrounded them. Guns clicked across the impromptu semi-circle, and a thirteenth person emerged from the glare. When Canada's eyes readjusted, he could make out a sharp, predatory nose and flinty black eyes, surrounded by well-coiffed ebony hair.

"Iran?" Canada asked waveringly, and was rewarded with a viperlike strike to the face that shot him into the wall of the tiny office. He collided heavily, and cried out in surprise at the pain.

"That was uncalled for," Russia snapped coldly. Six warning clicks punctured the room and Canada looked up to see the long barrels surrounding Russia, who looked both angry and amused.

"Don't hurt him!" Canada whimpered. Iran bore down on him, white teeth flashing.

"Such generosity to your enemies," he said gutturally, "I did not expect that from you, America."

Russia hung his head, and Canada scrambled to explain. "I'm not America!" he yelped. "I'm his brother, he just looks a lot like me!"

Iran looked unimpressed. "You can't fool me with that old trick," he spat, pulling his own gun out of its holster and aiming it pointedly between his eyebrows. "No way Canada would manage to abduct and subdue Russia the way you did."

"He didn't abduct me," Russia pointed out pleasantly. "I went of my own free will."

Iran grunted. "I don't trust you, you're Russian. And you, America, I don't trust you either."

Canada mused on this a little – wasn't America supposed to have fairly good relations with Iran? Something had obviously changed. The vicious Persian warrior who threatened him was nothing like the liberal, lazy Iran that he had heard about. Had his revolution done this? He looked haggard, as if he hadn't slept in days.

"Prove it, then."

Canada snapped out of his thoughts and looked away. "What?" he mumbled, trying to say it respectfully.

"Prove you me that you're Canada."

Russia piped up again, looking pointedly at his fellow prisoner. "I can testify on his behalf, if you wish," he volunteered with a slightly disturbing smile.

Of all the people to have on my side, Canada thought, equally awed and unnerved.

"Quiet," Iran snapped. "I don't need my contribution from you. I deal with you next."

Russia gently pushed away one of the more insistent gun muzzles with his bound hands. "Oh, take your time," he said icily.

XxXxX

I don't know what I was thinking when you said accessories, but this is certainly not what I had in mind. "

America ignored him, admiring his handiwork. In front of him, a squat black helicopter was parked like a patient, snub-nosed bug, more an image of blundering air jaunts than high-tech aeronautics. It was a Sea Stallion CH-number-something-more-to-make-it-sound-cool-than-serve-any-real-catologuing-purpose. It was, presumably, outfitted with all the latest weaponry – since that was what America had spent the past thirty minutes doing to England. He equated himself now with an illegal armaments repository: a sniper rifle slung on his back; two holsters for different pistols on each leg; ammunition rolled across so many belts he felt like a mummy. That wasn't including all of the hidden-trigger throwing-knives and gas canisters grenades. If he moved too sharply, he'd probably stab, stun and explode himself all in one go.

"Are you sure this isn't overkill?" he grumbled, walking robotically towards the chopper to avoid detonation.

"Maybe," America said brightly, carrying even more weaponry with twice as much ease, "but I'd rather have too much than too little!"

"Too little?" England replied incredulously. "Exactly how many people are you planning on murdering?"

America tore his eyes off the helicopter to shoot England a disapproving look. "Nobody!" he promised. "You're only carrying tranquilizer darts anyways."

He looked down. He was wrapped in a shell of hypodermic needles. A quiet, proud smile started to blossom on his face. "You can be a good person, you know?" he said, almost to himself.

"Oh, except the sniper rifle. Also don't touch any of the grenades."

England deadpanned instantly. "It can't be a coincidence that I regret it every time I compliment you."

America ignored him, already halfway to the helicopter. England trotted along behind him as best he could, hoisting himself up into the co-pilot's seat. Smiling like a child with a new toy, America handed him a clunky-looking headset and said with overly action-hero-esque bravado, "buckle up."

Stifling a snicker, England obeyed, placing the headphones on only to have them slide snugly down around his neck. Tsking in disdain, he tried to shove them back up, but they slid down again. He settled for leaving them there, trying to convince himself that he looked cool that way. Meanwhile, America was absentmindedly playing with switches and dials, while keeping up a stream of nonsensical flight-related numbers and letters into the headphones. England stared at him disapprovingly, but it seemed to have no effect. He was jolted out of his glare when the metal beneath him started to rumble and purr, shivering all along its rivets. The blades started to whirr and beat overhead. He felt the thrum of flight start to take in the core of the metallic beast-

And then with a cough like a sick old man, the engine sputtered and died.

America seemed to pause for a second, then tried a couple of the switches. The helicopter remained completely unresponsive. England started awkwardly at the dashboard.

"What's going on?" the pilot snapped into his crackling headset. There was a small burst of static and a faint response.

"Sir, the Sea Stallion can't maintain flight."

"I got that much, Corporal!" America snapped, starting to fiddle almost spastically. "But what's the issue here?"

A small, mumbling conference went on in the background. England tried to glue the little headphones to his ears to better hear the conversation. He was just in time to pick up, "We're thinking it could be too heavy. Sir."

"But how could that happen?" an impatient America squeaked.

"I…I think there's too many guns on the plane, sir."

America's response was obscured by a burst of raucous, wicked laughter from the copilot's seat. The radio operator tried to remain professional as her heard a retaliatory slap, a high-pitched "Ow! You prick!" and then the tell-tale white noise of a headset being disconnected.

"Could it be anything else?" his superior hissed angrily.

"Well," the operator grappled, "we've been having some test-flight issues. Unresponsive steering, on occasion-"

The other headset was also abruptly cut off. The poor young operator wondered, tearfully, if he was fired.

Back in the helicopter, an American pilot was tearing away at his belt buckles and muttering under his breath, while his English copilot nursed the throbbing spot on the back of his neck.

"You didn't have to – hey! Where the bloody hell are you off to?"

The pilot had flung the door open and jumped, landing on the tarmac. Stalking angrily away from the helicopter, he shed flight gear as he went. England fumbled with his own seatbelt and climbed out backwards before sprinting to catch up.

"What's this-"

"We're walkin'!" America snapped petulantly.

Then, as an afterthought, he snatched England by the wrist to drag him along. The other country felt his heart lurch and his breathing freeze, but he somehow managed to stutter through his (angry, he told himself) blush, "Why? Can't we just take some of your guns out?"

The bigger country broke suddenly into a sprint, bursting across the airfield and back onto the street. "There's no point. And anyways, it's having…unresponsive steering issues!"

They careened around a corner, England nearly plowing headfirst into a building as he went.

"One might say the same of you!" he retorted loudly, as the two weighed-down soldiers took off to the American Embassy.

XxXxX

Canada was at his wit's end. After recounting about a third of his history, naming all of the Prime Ministers, Governor-Generals, and hockey players on the 1972 Summit Series team, saying the alphabet, counting to eighty-four in French and telling Iran his favorite beavertail recipe, he was exhausted, embarrassed and almost out of Canadiana. He'd even gone so far as to throw a in couple of "ehs?" and apologize for speaking too much. But Iran still seemed undecided.

"Aren't you convinced yet?" Canada pleaded.

Russia had been following him the whole time, with notable glares when Henderson was mentioned and surprise when he found out beavertails were made out of dough and not beaver. Now, however, he just looked bored.

"You must be," Russia whined. "We now know more about Canada than anybody ever wanted to."

The gunmen had all relaxed, somewhat. They nodded in desperate agreement with Russia, some of them leaning on rifles for support. Russia was splayed over the office carnage, staring at the ceiling and whistling some little folk song.

"Shut up!" Iran said. He sat on the overturned chair, mopping his forehead on his sleeve. Heat was filling the room like some thick, choking liquid. Everyone was tired but the other country wouldn't give in. "I can't just let myself be convinced. You're…you're my enemy."

"It's a pleasure," Russia mumbled under his breath.

"No!" Canada snapped at both of them. "I'm not your enemy just because my brother is! Seriously, I am my own nation, you know! I've got a flag, a military, and you damn well know now that I have my own boss! So stop putting me in the same category as him!"

The last word came out as a vindictive shriek that seemed to startle everyone back into alertness. The retinue held their guns up instantly, but Iran held up a pensive hand.

"Alright," he said calmly. "I understand."

Canada breathed a huge sigh of relief-

And with that, the door burst open and a canister of gas tumbled in, spewing smoke and inciting instant chaos. Cries in multiple languages suddenly burst from all directions as the crowded room was blinded and reduced to coughing fits of rage. Canada's voice was especially shrill, and in a cry transcending the thumping, cracking furniture he yelled, "DAMN IT, ALFRED!"

The sound of gunfire split the room, and something heavy was thrust into his hands, tangling in the binding. The smoke was thinning just a bit, and Canada could make out figures darting around and bullets streaming through the smog. One of them emerged, and Canada caught a glimpse of glittering black eyes before the man slumped forwards into him, knocking him to the ground. It was Iran, with a needle-dart between his shoulder blades. Canada tried to shove him off, but couldn't manage it and just shut his eyes, clutching the gun he'd been given to his chest. It was over in minutes, and the room fell silent except for two heavy, panting breathing patterns.

"Gas?" someone said. "Honestly?"

Another voice resounded, louder and more exuberant. "Yeah! Wasn't that amazing?"

"Or totally unnecessary!"

So he was right. America and England were back. He didn't know whether to be overjoyed or horrified.

"Where's Russia?"
Canada settled for seething and spiteful. He tried to think of something clever to say, but his mind was sluggish and it was hard to get air crushed underneath another country. Russia responded instead, chirping "I'm here!" Canada could see through the smoke that he hadn't moved since the fight had started.

"Wait!" America argued. "What about my little brother?"

"Well, he must be…around." England said vaguely, focusing his attention on undoing Russia's hands. The captured nation giggled, but said nothing.

"They probably left with him already!" America despaired. "Maybe they're torturing him." He rounded on England. "This is all your fault!"

"Me?" England asked, aghast. "If you hadn't overloaded your stupid helicopter with all those unnecessary weapons we'd have been here on time!"

They stood nose to nose, colour rapidly rising in their cheeks. This was going to dissolve into a screaming match. Angrily, Canada fumbled with his dart gun.

"It wasn't unnecessary! It was awesome! And besides, I told you – steering issues!"

Over the bickering they neglected to hear the quiet ping of two darts, and failed to notice them altogether until they punctured their respective necks. America's eyes crossed lazily, while England's rolled spectacularly back in his head. They stumbled and fell against each other drowsily, trying to decide, in light of this odd new situation, what would be the most comfortable way to hit the floor. In the end, weight won, and England crumpled backwards with a muggy "Bugger it," America falling squarely on top of him and snoring gently.

Finally managing to extricate himself from under Iran, Canada rolled his eyes and dusted himself off. He walked over to their prone bodies and looked around at the thirteen fallen Iranians around him. It looked like everyone had just been knocked out. Not a single casualty. He briefly acknowledged that America had made one good decision in using the darts before kicking his brother angrily in the shoulder and snapping, "serves you right, jackass."

Russia watched him from his perch on the desk, wide-eyed and impressed. A carnivorous smile started to appear on his face, and he rose with a practiced combination of grace and intimidation. He turned sharply to Canada in a way that made the long coat flick, and chuckled his approval.

"Well done, Canada," he said, stepping forwards. Still jumpy from the fight, Canada backed away towards the wall. Russia closed in on him with that same slightly insane smile.

"Erm…Th-thank you?" Canada managed awkwardly.

"I am impressed," Russia said, putting a hand to his mouth thoughtfully. Then, completely without warning, he shot forwards and pinned Canada to the wall. "I didn't know you were so, ah…independent…"

His great, staring eyes were so close, too close-

"Perhaps, to distinguish yourself from your brother," he purred, "you will become one with Russia?"

There was a small click of a dart gun.

"Hell no," Canada said dryly.

The other country's eyebrows jumped slightly and his face grew shocked, but only for a brief moment. Nearly immediately the eerie, staring eyes grew foggy and pleasantly dim, before Russia fell soundly asleep standing up, his forehead pressed against the wall next to Canada's ear. Shoving him mercilessly off, Canada sighed and tossed the gun away. He looked first at the happily dreaming Russian, and then at the England-America dogpile he'd managed to create in the middle of the room.

"Now that," he muttered, "is more like it."

Producing three slightly rumpled Canada Post bags from nowhere, Canada set to work.

XxXxX

OH GOD SO MUCH WORK. I told myself I would finish this AND I DID. YAY! It's crazy longer than the other chapter, too.

The ending seemed a little hasty to me but that's just because I wanted to get this thing bloody well done already. Honestly I just had inspiration for Chapter One. I made this one up as I went.

Yeah also I'm sorry for the psychotic redshirt thing. I love Russia, I really do. Favourite of favourites, up there with England.

HISTORICAL AND CULTURAL STUFF!

So when America attempted to rescue their hostages with Operation Eagle Claw, everything went a little haywire because three of their helicopters broke down. The thing about the gun weight is completely made up, of course. (I love American operation names. They're always so epic. EAGLE CLAWWWWR)

1972 Summit Series was an equally epic Canadian-USSR hockey series. We won in game eight. My country easily considers this victory its greatest achievement. Ever. The man who scored the winning goal is named Henderson. The USSR said we cheated, called a re-match two years later, and absolutely wiped the floor with us. Canadians pretend this 1974 series didn't actually happen.

Beavertails are…hm. The only way I can describe them is like a cross between a square pancake and a doughnut. They're fantastic, but the name unsettles people :P

So yeah, that's one fic down! Thank you all for reading :)