Scene 2~ England
According to my America... if you bleep out swearing, it doesn't count. This fic is now K+, for violence and Spamano.
I have also written the only Bartimeus/Hetalia crossover on this site. It feels lonely. Maybe if you feed it some reviews, it will be happier. ;)
After dismissing the demon, Arthur Kirkland sat down on the floor inside the pentacle, and let out a deep breath.
There was no question about it- he was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. If Kitty was innocent, he'd lost his only lead. If she was guilty...
Arthur shuddered and stood up, pacing the room.
For the past three weeks, he'd been in charge of guarding two new magic weapons. And just yesterday, they had been stolen.
He pinched the bridge of his nose again, and closed his eyes. A dull ache of fear hung in the back of his mind.
I'm doomed, no matter what happens, he thought.
Arthur glanced down at his watch. It was only 9:00. Already, it had been a long day.
His pager buzzed, just as the phone on his desk started to ring. He crossed the room and picked it up.
"Arthur Kirkland, Internal Affairs," he said.
Ms. Ironwood's voice, as hard and sharp as nails, cut through the phone.
"Arthur, what happened to the Pestilential Spheres?"
He cringed, and considered his options for a split-second. Telling the truth could be suicide... he'd have admitted, on the record, that he mucked things up. But lying... Ms. Ironwood would kill him if she found out, and he might wind up in the Tower of London as a traitor.
"They- ah- went missing, ma'am," he said nervously. "I believe they were stolen."
"Stolen," his master repeated. Her voice froze the blood in Arthur's veins.
"Y-yes, ma'am. I've been up since four in the morning tracking them down."
He had been summoning demons since he had gotten out of bed... he'd summoned five imps, a handful of foliots, and two djinn. He'd also summoned Russia twice, but that was beside the point.
"There's no sign of them anywhere," he added.
Arthur knew he talked too much under pressure... he'd seen it so many times with America that it wasn't even funny anymore. But he couldn't stop the flow of words.
Shut up, England, his inner censor said. Don't babble at her.
There was a short, awkward silence. Finally, his master spoke.
"I expected better of you, Kirkland," she said.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," Arthur replied. He scuffed the toe of his ill-fitting dress shoe across the floor. "I'm concentrating my efforts on retrieving them. We should have them back by Founder's Day."
"For your sake, I hope that's true." Ms. Ironwood's voice was clipped. He knew that, if she was there in person, she would be giving him the evil eye.
His mouth suddenly felt dry.
"The Council's convening this afternoon," she continued. "Get them back by then. I don't care what you have to do, just get them back. If you don't..."
She left it hanging, like a threat.
Arthur swallowed.
"Yes, ma'am," Arthur said. "I won't let you down."
Ms. Ironwood hung up the phone with a precise click. Arthur hung up as well, and rested his head in shaking hands.
I'm dead, I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead, he thought. There's no WAY I can get them back by then, what the **** am I going to do?
There was no way out. He could feel the bonds of an eternal torture closing around him- eternal, because he couldn't die. He was the personification of England, and the only way he'd die was if the British Empire fell.
His status as a nation caused some problems for him already- since he couldn't age, he looked ridiculously young. He could maybe pass for twenty-one or twenty-two, if he wore thick-soled shoes and spoke gruffly. But since there were state secrets he needed to know, he was perpetually stuck as an 'apprentice' to one of the great ones of the Empire. He knew everything that happened in his borders, but he was powerless to change them.
And that wasn't the worst part. He could tell the Empire was starting to crumble. His outermost edges- his fingers and toes and the top of his head- ached all the time, and when a battle broke out, they throbbed like mad.
The phone rang again, piercing his reverie. He felt himself sit up straighter, and held the phone as if it was his only lifeline.
"Arthur Kirkland, Internal Affairs," he said, again.
"This is Jessica Whitwell," a crisp voice said. "Do you have a minute?"
Arthur felt his face growing warm. Of course Jess would call now. He was flustered enough as it was; he never knew what to say when he talked to her.
"Of course," he said, pushing himself to sound casual. "What do you need?"
He wiped his hair out of his eyes.
"I received your invitation today," she said. "For Founder's Day."
His heart skipped a beat. He'd wanted to ask Jess to 'escort' him for months now, but he hadn't had the guts. Finally, he 'd written out an invitation, and put it in her in-tray at work.
"Yes?" he said. He couldn't hide the tremor in his voice this time. His nerves were worn to a frazzle.
He tried to calm himself by picturing Jess- her tall, lanky frame, from which a gray suit loosely hung; her cropped, ash-blonde hair; her ice blue eyes, alight with wry intelligence behind horn-rimmed glasses. But the mental image only made his heart beat faster, and his tongue tied itself into knots.
"Regrettably, I've already accepted someone else's invitation," she said.
Arthur felt the pit drop out of his stomach.
"I... I understand, Ms. Whitwell," he said. "Forgive me."
Jessica laughed.
"There's nothing to forgive," she said. "Give my regards to Ms. Ironwood."
Then she was gone, and he rested his head on his desk. He felt completely drained, and caught like a rat in a trap.
Arthur knew, from sad experience, that one never said 'This day can't get any worse'. The universe inevitably found something horrid to fling at you. But for the life of him, he couldn't see anything worse than the day he'd been having.
This is the worst day I've had in years, and it's not even noon yet.
He levered himself upright, rubbing his sore fingers, and went back to work.
