Hey guys! Thief King here! Sooooooooo I finally got around to typing up the first chapter of the story which I've had finished in my notebook for about a week. Orrrrr probably more. Yeah, I'm lazy. So, I hope you enjoy.

Again, I do not in any way shape or form own Hetalia or The Survivor.

This is a story about a group of kids. We were only fifteen or sixteen years old. And yet everyday, we risked our lives. Risked getting shot or torn apart by dogs. We didn't care. We'd rather die from a bullet than of starvation. The food ration in the ghetto was 250 calories per person, per day.

You don't have to be a genius to know that no one can survive on that.

The ghetto was surrounded on all sides by a nine foot high wall, topped with barbed wire and glass. Any Jew caught on the Aryan side or trying to smuggle food into the ghetto was automatically shot. But that didn't stop us.

I had three friends in the ghetto. Three real friends. Not counting my twin brother Feliciano. All of us were foreigners, and perhaps that's what drew us together. There was only one Pole among us; Feliks Łukasiewicz. But since he was a Jew like the rest of us, he may as well have been a foreigner.

The other two were a Spaniard named Antonio Carriedo and a Frenchman named François Bonnefoy. François was the oldest, at seventeen. The rest of us were sixteen. But we felt older, a lot older. We had to be. We had to grow up fast in the ghetto. We didn't have a choice.

"We're going to starve." All five of us ere sitting atop a roof in the ghetto, our favorite place to go. My bleak outlook on the situation wasn't helping to lift anyone's spirits, but at that point, I didn't give a shit.

"Don't say that, mon ami." François was lounging against the brick chimney with his effortless French grace, his shoulder length blond hair hanging down, dirty from days without washing. The plumbing in most houses had long since stopped working. All of us were filthy and reeking of sweat, dirt, and despair. "We're not going to starve."

I scoffed. "Yes we are." I shot François a dirty, scornful look. "The ration is 250 calories a day, dipshit. No one can survive on that." I leaned back, folding my arms. "If we don't do something, we'll starve."

Antonio frowned, his brow furrowing. "Do something?"

I nodded shortly. "Sì."

The others glanced around at each other, looking confused and uneasy. "What are you talking about, fratello?" Feliciano asked, leaning forward, his brows knit together in confusion.

My eyes flicked from one questioning face to the next, resolute and cold. "I'm talking about smuggling food over the wall."

They all reacted with shock and horror, François uttering a gasp of "Mon dieu!", his blue eyes wide. Antonio shook his head. "You can't be serious, amigo."

My eyes narrowed. "I'm dead serious, Antonio. And dead is exactly what we'll be if we don't do this."

"Dead is what we'll be if we do!" François cried. "Think of what could happen, mon ami! There are German guards crawling all over the ghetto, and dozens guarding the wall! You know the rules, Lovino! Any Jew caught—"

"Any Jew caught on the Aryan side or smuggling food will automatically be shot," I finished tonelessly. "I know. But you forgot the rules of life, François. You don't eat, you die."

They were all silent for a moment as they mulled it over. Feliks was the first to speak. "Lovino's right," he said softly, his green eyes fixed thoughtfully on the ground. "Other people are doing it. I've heard about it. I've seen it. I think we can do it." He glanced up at the rest of us. "Besides," he added, "François doesn't look Jewish, and neither do I. We've got light hair and light eyes." His eyes settled on my brother and I. "And the Italians are on the German's side in the war, so they'll love you. Just bat your eyelashes and use your pretty Italian accents, and they'll be so wooed they won't even notice we're smuggling food."

"Shut your fucking mouth, you son of a bitch," I snarled at him, eyes narrowed. "I'm not on those bastard's side, and neither is Feli."

"I didn't say you were," Feliks snapped, though his implications had been quite clear, and he knew it as well as I. "Calm down, would you? Aren't we trying to form a plan?"

I shot Feliks one last dirty look before turning to the others. "All right. Feliks is in, and so am I. Who else?"

There was a long pause before François spoke. "I still don't like it. It's far too dangerous, but… I can't let you take the risk alone." He folded his arms. "Count me in."

I nodded shortly before turning my eyes on the green-eyed Spaniard. "Antonio?"

He shrugged easily. "I'll always stick with you, Lovi," he purred, with the sort of smile and glint in his eyes that made me turn as red as the tomatoes I'd always used to eat before the war. Still flushed, I turned to my brother.

"Feli?"

He was wringing his hands, face screwed up with worry. "I… I don't know, fratello… François is right, it's so dangerous… the Germans have guns, a-and dogs… we could get killed so easily!"

My gaze held no sympathy for him, and when I spoke, my voice was blunt. "We could get killed anyways for doing nothing. Tell me, Feli, would you rather die from a bullet, or starve to death.

He had no answer.

He lowered his head, and François slid closer, putting an arm around Feli's shoulders, comforting him.

I nodded at them all. "So it's agreed. We'll meet here tomorrow to discuss the plan." I pushed myself to my feet. "Bring all the money you can. We'll need it." I took Feli's hand and pulled him up before looking down at all of them. "You know what we're getting into, don't you?" I asked quietly, my voice soft. "You've committed. If you're going to back out, do it now. Once we start, there's no turning back."

They all looked at each other before looking back up at me and nodding. Feli drew closer to me before nodding fearfully as well.

I nodded back once before turning to look out over the rotting, stinking hell known as the Warsaw ghetto. "Good." I lifted my chin, folding my arms. "Let's show those German bastards what we're made of."

I know, I know. I made Poland a total dick. But this sort of thing, living in a place like the Warsaw ghetto, it changes you. And I needed someone else besides Romano to be an asshole.

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