Issa's POV

It's been dark since we got here, wherever here is. I don't quite believe they're telling the truth about being in Germany, but it sure as heck shouldn't be this dark in D.C. at this time. I should've paid more attention when we were studying time zones in class. I'm not sure what Josh is doing, but he's been quiet since we talked about waiting. For a while, I found myself by the vent in case Josh wanted to strike up another conversation. Then, I got bored and started pacing.

I'm fully aware of how stupid I look. Every once in a while I'll look up at the closest camera and scowl, or I'll sit down on the bay window, or one of the beds, or one of the chairs, or somewhere on the floor, and I've even tried to sit on top of the table once or twice. Finally, I just flop down on the bed closest to the window and stare at the ceiling.

I grab a pillow and place it on my stomach wrapping my arms around it, like a child does with her favorite toy. After a few seconds, I slowly move over so I'm lying on my side and curl around it, burying my face in the white fabric. My mind clouds over with an incessant loop of I want to go home.

My breath catches in a quiet sob, and tears fall spontaneously from my eyes onto the previously dry pillow. I hate impulsive break-downs. I decide to stay completely still in order to not call attention to myself. With all the security and the soldiers and the cameras, no doubt someone is watching me right now.

To my horror, the door lock clicks. Shooting up with a small gasp, I rub my face dry with my sleeve and jump to my feet. It's "Feliciano". He wears a T-shirt adorned with the Italian flag and jeans, and he wears an unzipped light blue hoodie over his shoulders. He was wearing his blue uniform earlier. I'm slightly taken aback by the normalness of his outfit.

Behind him stands a tall soldier wearing a camouflage uniform. He looks mid-thirties, with a clean-shaven face and a buzz-cut. He closes the door and stands in front of it, crossing his arms, and his expression is almost like he wants me to act up.

I still refuse to let my imagination get the best of me. I remind myself that this is real life; this is not that dumb anime. These people are real, and they will hurt me. So what if his name is Feliciano Vargas and he looks and acts exactly how Italy Veneziano looks and acts? So what if my anime theory is the only one that makes the slightest amount of sense?

"Ciao!" chirps the scrawny redhead. "Ginki desu ka?" (Italian: Hello! Japanese: How are you?)

I take a step back and glare at him through my bangs. The annoying strand of hair they hairsprayed is still standing tall, making me look ridiculous. I hope he gets the hint.

"Anata ga suita?" he asks me. In his hands, he holds a ball of rice covered in plastic wrap. With a friendly smile, he extends it towards me, and I take another step back. When I only continue to glower at him, he adds, "Wakarimasuka?" (Are you hungry? Do you understand?)

When he walked in, I was planning on giving him the silent treatment. But my answer slips out of my mouth before I can stop it: "Iranai. Hotto ite yo." (I don't want it. Leave me alone)

Feliciano lets his arm draw back, and his smile turns into a little pout. "Nande?" (Why?)

He takes another step closer, and I jump back until I can't anymore. "Anata wa kiken desu." (You are dangerous)

He tilts his head to the left and lets his arms fall completely down to his sides. It's like he's really stupid enough to believe he hasn't done anything wrong. "Machigatta desu!" he protests enthusiastically. I think he notices I've been crying, and I let my gaze fall to the floor, looking intently at Feliciano's bare feet and my shoes. (You're wrong!)

"Hotto ite!" I demand, my voice low and growly. I glance up and around for any weapons I could use, like a lamp or something. Nothing particularly harmful crosses my line of sight, but my hand does reach down and grasp the end of a pillow. Nothing like a good pillow fight, after all. (Leave me alone!)

He just keeps blabbering on in Japanese and maybe a little bit of Italian. I can ignore that, but he is dangerously close to my personal space bubble. Finally he crosses the invisible line into my personal space bubble, and I let my arm loose, sending the pillow into his face. It's a bit comical, the way he falls over. I take advantage of his inattentiveness and make it so I am not cornered against the wall.

The soldier yells at me in German, I think, advancing with long strides. I slip my shoe off and stuff it in the pillowcase, hoping I can hit him with it hard enough to get him to keep his distance. But Feliciano jumps up and puts himself between us, hands out in a "Please don't fight" sort of gesture. I guess the soldier has to take orders from him, because he backs down, glaring at me so I know my place.

I keep trying to imagine what Italy would do in this situation, and then matching it up with what Feliciano is doing. Mostly, he does what I expect him to. Except, when I hit him, he didn't immediately start crying. I guess maybe I should have hit him harder? Anyway, he's trying to calm me down, changing the subject by asking me my name. Like he doesn't know. When I just stand there, glaring and in a position to hit him again, he says, "Namae wa? Isabella desu, ne?"(What's your name? It's Isabella, right?)

"Shinsetsu kurete hoshikunai," I inform him, still ready to swing the pillow, "to tasukete kurete hoshikunai." (I don't want your kindness, and I don't want your help)

For a second, I see myself in his eyes: face red, eyes wet, one shoe off, frantic battle position; I'm just a kid. Just a stupid, stubborn little girl, trying desperately to maintain her courage. After all, the bravery of a child is nothing. All my attempts are futile. I can see it in his eyes; he pities me.

I step out of my defensive position, holding the pillowcase with one clenched hand by my side. I'm just tired of this. It's stupid, keeping me here. I'm stupid. I can't give them anything of value. I interrupt Feliciano's seemingly endless ramblings with a softer, more polite, "Hitori ni shite oi kudasai." (It's a kinder way of saying "Please leave me alone.")

He looks at me for a second, stuttering to a stop, and then he just nods, face blank of the happy-go-lucky grin I've gotten rather used to; he replaced it with a sadly curious look. It's like he knows exactly what he and his friends have done, but he'd prefer to act otherwise. On the way out, he puts the rice ball on the table with a mumbled sentence or two that I don't have the knowledge or patience to translate, and he leaves. The soldier lets him pass through the door first, choosing to have an extra second or two to stare threateningly at me. I don't bring myself to make eye contact, instead pretending to gaze longingly out the window while I try to stop the tears from flowing again.

I just don't know how I'm supposed to react to this. I mean, there are certain people whom I act differently towards. Like, I'm more myself around Mom and Renae, but polite towards people I don't know, people who I don't want to scare off. I'm a little bit snarky around my mom's friends, the ones who have known us since I was born. I can also be sarcastic around people at school I try to impress; sometimes I say things without filtering and they turn out to make everyone laugh.

But this—I just don't know. I'm not going to be myself around these men; I'm too naïve, too off-guard, and you can bet that I'm going to do whatever it takes to protect myself. I don't really want to be polite to them after the way they've treated me. I don't know enough Japanese to be cynical. I dunno, maybe I can just give them the cold shoulder; I'm really good at that, if nothing else. But I can't do that, either, because I have to translate for Josh.

For a while after that, I fiddle with a single blue pen I had tucked in my back pocket. I doodle on my hands, practicing the hiragana symbols I learned in class with song lyrics I spent too much time memorizing. I wonder what they'd do if I drew on the walls. For rebellion's sake, I make a long mark on the wall touching the window in my little niche. Small victories are better than no victories, after all. I just leave that there to remind myself that I could do worse with my ballpoint. Pen's mightier than the sword, and all that….

I fall asleep on the cushion on the windowsill, hood bunched up under my head like a pillow, glasses held tightly in one hand, and my pen in the other. When I wake up a few minutes later, I realize that my crunched position brought me back to reality. So, I cave in and lie on the bed, which I didn't initially ever intend to do at all. I don't hide myself under the covers; I feel that sends the message that I'm comfortable here. Since I'm far from that, I prefer to send the message that this placement is temporary. Which, I hope, it is.

My wrists are a shiny pink color. They kinda hurt, too. I avoid drawing on the raw lines in fear of irritating them further. I think it's from the duct tape in the car, when I woke up and started struggling. I can't help but wonder if I have a few bruises on my neck from when he choked me earlier.

I suddenly come to the realization that that was an attempt on my life. As I impulsively stroke my neck as gently as I can, I imagine scenarios where that could have gone differently. He could've succeeded in strangling me. Failed at killing me, but left me badly injured. Skipped the strangulation part and gone straight for his gun. All these depictions end up with me either hurt or dead, and the more my mind brings forth, the more I feel myself drift off into hysterics.

Lying down and trying to sleep doesn't seem like such a good idea anymore. I can't sit still, I just can't. I pace rapidly back and forth, hyperventilating. I am terrified. I could be dead anytime they wanted me to be. I could never see my family again. I could be trapped in here forever, living out the rest of my life as their experiment. If that happens, I'll never grow up and get a job, fall in love, graduate school, go to college, et cetera, et cetera…. These thoughts scare me senseless, and as my pacing route gets shorter and my steps longer, I realize I'm crying again.

I make myself sit back down on the bed, grabbing for the pillow I claimed and burying my face in it. It takes a while, but eventually, I cry myself out and fall asleep.

I don't know how long it is until I am pulled unwillingly from unconsciousness. Annoyed at waking up, I flip from one side to the other, curling my legs up and bringing my knuckles to my lips, fingers curled into a fist. The other hand I leave twisted in an uncomfortable position, palm up, arm pinned under my body.

Then someone touches my head.

Before even opening my eyes, I roll over in the other direction and fall off the side, hitting my head on the floor. After taking a second to register and try to bury the pain, I shove my glasses on my face and peek over across the bed. Standing there in a white and black t-shirt and black skinny jeans is, unmistakably, Prussia.

He raises his eyebrows and lifts his hands in a surrender gesture, exhaling in a way that sounds like a laugh. It's not very calming, and I feel a little spark of annoyance somewhere underneath all my panic. "Yaa," he says, dropping one hand and waving the other. (Hey—greeting) He smiles, and I see his pointed canines, and I have to stare at them—they look real. Very real. No one's natural teeth are that sharp. For a couple minutes, he has a one-sided conversation, and I stare at him, disbelief freezing me in the spot I fell.

The man seems to be getting frustrated at me. Maybe it's the language barrier; he keeps saying something about Japanese and English and a couple other languages, waiting for my response. Maybe he heard that I somewhat can understand, and now he's confused because I'm not showing any signs that I do.

I just can't believe that this is really happening. I mean, I don't know if I'm going crazy, or what, because this is too similar to the characters. This man is too comparable to Prussia. H—he looks like Prussia, he acts like Prussia, he sounds like Prussia, but all laws of nature deny that Prussia can be standing before me. So what do I believe—my senses or my knowledge?!

"Namae wa?" he asks me, walking a couple steps around the bed. I jump up, immediately awake, and it doesn't take long for me to be cornered against the wall. When I stubbornly remain silent, he adds, "Ore no namae wa Gilbert desu." (What's your name? My name's Gilbert.)

Gilbert. Of course his name is Gilbert.

There's suddenly a small peeping noise, and I notice the small yellow bird on his head, nestled comfortably into his hair. It stands up and hops down onto his shoulder. "Wakarimasu ka?" he asks, standing a good distance away, hands on his hips.(Do you understand?)

I don't answer, even though I do understand. Acting like I don't seems like a good plan. "Anata ga rikai shite imasu!" (You do understand!) he crows suddenly in a triumphant voice, pointing at my hands. Oh, right. I wrote on them in Japanese. Whoops.

"Dore dake anata wa Nihongo wo hanasu no desuka?" I have to stop and translate—Okay, "anata"—you, "Nihongo"—Japanese, "hanasu"—speak: How much do I speak? When I work it out, I just shrug again and tilt my head from side to side. I'm trying to say that I don't speak much; I think he gets the message, and I'm assuming he asks why I still won't talk. I don't know why I won't talk. I just don't want to. I still can; my silence is just my kind of personal victory.

"Ore to kuru," he says after a few more minutes of my quiet. I understand, and I shake my head solemnly in answer. "Hai! Ikimashou!" Gilbert jumps for my wrist. Without thinking, I lash out with my foot, managing to kick him in the stomach. While he doubles over, I scamper back over the bed, distancing myself from him. I consider locking myself in the bathroom. The bird falls off his shoulder and flies around in circles over his head, squawking up a storm. (Come with me. Yes! Let's go!)

"Mondai wa nan desu ka?!" Gilbert sputters at me, still hunched over in pain. The anger from his face falls off, and he stands up, looking at me now with an expression of pity. "Ah, sou," he says simply. "Kowai desu ka?" (What's your problem? Oh, right. Are you afraid?)

His sympathy irritates me, and I'm caught between blowing my top and bursting into tears. Unable to figure out which I would rather do, I feel my expression ripple between the two emotions, never taking a single form. "Hai," I say simply, making the impromptu decision to just be truthful. (Yes.)

"Nai de," he answers as his annoying bird shuts up and lands back onto his head, as if this is the simplest thing to do. "Ore wa tomodachi desu." (Don't be. I'm a friend.)

I shake my head, glaring at him. "Anata wa kiken desu." (You are dangerous.)

He frowns at me. "Iie." (No.) For a while, we just look at each other. He looks slightly upset that I would ever think he would hurt a fly. But pardon me, Mr. Gilbert, but that's what runs through my mind after being kidnapped. Finally, he repeats himself. "Namae wa?" (What's your name?)

I remain silent for a few minutes, looking at the hiragana marks on my hands. "Isabella desu," I answer at last. I prefer to use my full name; I don't want to make it seem like I like him enough to use a nickname. (It's Isabella)

"Hajimemashite!" he chirps, showing off his pointed canines. He then puts his arms by his sides and sinks down into a bow, a trait I learned in Japanese class; it's supposed to be respectful…. Also, it's more commonly found in Asian countries, not European. (Nice to meet you!)

"…Doozo yoroshiku onigaishimasu," I voice after a while, copying the bow with the feminine version; instead of putting my arms by my side, I fold my hands in front of me. I also refused to bow as low as he did, which can be seen as disrespectful: the deeper the bow, the more reverence indicated. (This phrase doesn't have an exact translation, but it's supposed to mean something along the lines of "treat me kindly" or something like that. It's just something you say after you meet someone for the first time.)

Then it's awkwardly silent. I don't want to talk to him; he doesn't seem to know what to say, and he doesn't know if I'll understand. He asks me again how much Japanese I know. I give a half-hearted shrug, brushing my hair out of my face.

"Ore to kuru," Gilbert tells me again, gentler. He extends his hand and tries to give a reassuring smile. When I just look at him for a minute, he adds, "Kowai naide." (Come with me. Don't be afraid.)

"…Wakatta…," I finally mumble, taking a hesitant step forward. (…Okay….)

I reluctantly follow him out of the room. He keeps looking back at me, making sure I haven't run away. While we walk, he talks rapid-fire, excitedly babbling about stuff I can't understand. I let my mind wander, examining the hallways. Soldiers converse amongst each other in German, their day just starting. Back home, judging by how tired I feel, I'd say it's around one in the morning, give or take a few hours.

Gilbert stops me in front of a door. He opens it and goes inside. After peeking inside, I guess that this is his room. Two walls are painted black, while the other two stay white. A dresser standing against the far wall is painted a bloody red shade; its drawers are all open, and clothes overflow onto the floor. The carpet is the same awful green shade as it is in my room, though there are many stains. Overall, the room gives off an air of unkemptness.

He goes to a desk on one of the side walls, opens it, and pulls out a spiral notebook and a plain yellow pencil. Then, he comes back and offers them to me. I give him a skeptical look, but I take them nonetheless. "Ikimashou!" he says enthusiastically, grabbing my wrist and dragging me along. (Let's go!)

I let out an embarrassingly audible gasp and start thrashing, trying to free myself. Gilbert lets go and stops, turning to look at me. "Nani?" he asks innocently with a twinge of annoyance in his voice. (What?)

"Nai de," I tell him, taking a defensive step back. "Just— don't touch me." (Don't.)

Unwilling to argue with me, he just gives an uncaring, "Hai, hai. Ikimashou." (Yeah, yeah. Let's go.)

I regret my decision to follow him, but I don't have much of a choice, now. This place is crawling with soldiers doing their morning routine, watching me, ready to spring into action if I make a scene. So I tighten my grip on the pencil and notebook and suck it up.

Gilbert stops, spinning around abruptly to look at me. I nervously take a step back. Dramatically, he points at a chair. "Isu," he tells me. (Chair)

I already know this, having learned it in class, so I slowly nod. It crosses my mind that he's trying to teach me Japanese. As soon as I realize this, I take another half-step back, glaring at him. "Yamare." (Stop that.)

He stops, his smile fading. He lowers his hand and crosses his arms across his chest, shifting his weight onto his other foot. "Nande?" he asks, and his tone is snarky. (Why?)

"Tasukete kurete hoshikunai," I inform him, sticking the pencil in the spiral loop of the notebook and thrusting it at the man. "Hotto ite yo." (I don't want your help. Leave me alone.)

I wish I could say something else; I must be starting to sound like a broken record. I don't want their help, or their kindness, and leave me alone, and that's all I seem to be able to say. I wish this was easier. But then again, judging by how much trouble I've gotten in with hardly saying a word, maybe a nonexistent language barrier would get me something worse than getting shoved against the wall by my neck.

Gilbert just looks at the notebook, sticking his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Then he looks at me and says simply, "Iie." (No.)

I exhale deeply and let my arm fall back to my side, my bangs flopping over my glasses. I can't deal with this.

"…Isu," Gilbert tells me again.

"Wakarimasu!" I snap at him, lifting my gaze to stare angrily at him. "Baka janai!"A couple of soldiers glance over at us, looking for orders. The man just waves them down and looks at me blankly. (I know! I'm not stupid!)

I hate the way he looks at me. If it's not enough that his eyes are an unnatural shade of vermillion, it's his expression, and the way that he won't quit staring. I mean, for goodness' sake, I'm not some sort of zoo animal. I'm not a helpless little girl who needs saving. And if I do need help, I certainly don't want it from him, or any of the people here, with Josh as the only exception.

Gilbert just keeps talking. I don't understand half of it, but it's got something to do with teaching. I, of course, remain stubborn as a mule, standing in one place with my arms crossed. I realize this is a childish move, but due to the fact that Gilbert doesn't seem to want to touch me, he can't make me move. He, however, is just as inflexible as I am, copying my position while discussing whatever it is he's talking about.

A sudden loud bellow of Gilbert's name makes me flinch. It's Ludwig, and it's obvious why he's angry—I'm out of my room. I whip my head around, looking for a place to hide, but there isn't one, and I'm not going to put myself behind Gilbert.

Gilbert plays it cool, unafraid of the stronger man. He tries to just laugh about it, which Ludwig does not find very amusing. They switch to German, now arguing. Gilbert tries to put his hand on my shoulder, but I whack it away. A second after, I realize that probably wasn't a smart move on my part; I could've just moved away, but instead, I hit someone Ludwig likes, tolerates at the least, and I take a step back, waiting for his reaction. He just looks at the other like I proved a point.

As their gestures get wilder and their voices angrier, I find myself edging more and more away until Ludwig notices and growls at me, and two soldiers materialize behind me. One of them is the first female soldier I've encountered here, her chestnut hair swirled into a high bun. She's fairly young, and it's obvious that she's strong. The man next to her could be her twin. It's not like I was trying to escape; my brain just went into panic-overload, and I was looking for a safe haven rather than a getaway route.

Gilbert opposes the presence of the soldiers, taking me by my sleeve away from them a couple steps. I'm so scared I forget to look angry. Anyway, Gilbert tries to wave them back to whatever they were doing, but Ludwig is still seething. Even though most of his anger isn't directed at me, I still find myself quietly hyperventilating, unable to move because of my fear numbing me.

I tilt my head towards the ground to they don't see my close my eyes. After a few more minutes of their loud and frankly very scary bickering, I feel Gilbert's arm loop around my shoulders. I flinch slightly, ducking my head more. Ludwig raises his voice again, and I can't tell if it's at me or at him. I don't want to start crying, and I like Gilbert a lot more than I like his brother, so I turn towards his chest and hide my face in his shirt.

I hear Gilbert's triumphant gibberish, and he wraps his other arm protectively around me. I open my eyes, staring into the fabric warmed with his body heat, and I am torn. I don't need his help—I'm so scared I can hardly think—just push him away—I can't do this alone and he's being so nice—I don't need his help, I can handle this myself—no, I can't—!

So, unsure of what to do to correct my actions, I stand there, arms stiff at my sides, hands clenched into fists, face buried in a stranger's chest; he smells like cheap beer and week-old sausage, but that's a small price to pay for solace. I feel weak, but I can't make myself face the enemy. I only concentrate on my breathing, listening to the conversation I can't understand. Their tones are cooling off, becoming calmer, slowly, but surely.

Gilbert lets go of me, and I meekly take a few steps back, not raising my head or gaze. I didn't notice this before, but Gilbert is only wearing socks, and Ludwig is wearing athletic shoes. My shoes are black Converse, old, covered in red hiragana nonsense, and falling apart. I don't care. They're comfortable.

They switched back to Japanese without me noticing. I realize this after picking out a few words, and they make me snap to attention. Ludwig called Gilbert Prussia. Not noticing my newfound alert expression, Gilbert retaliates, starting by calling Ludwig West.

Impossible.

"Ludwig" stutters to a stop, looking intently at me with an annoyed curiosity. "Nani?" he snaps when I stare in disbelief. (What?)

"West—Prussia—," I stutter, pointing at each one in turn. Then I shake my head. "Nothing," I mumble without trying to translate, dropping my gaze to the floor again. It can't be nothing, though. This is too weird. They act like their character, and they look like their characters, and they talk like their characters, but their characters are just that—characters. Fictional characters. They're not real. Seriously, how can they exist?!

I glance up again, noting that they haven't said anything for a while. I am just in time to see the last bits of their panicky expressions leave their faces. I suppose it solidifies my theory; why would they be alarmed if they weren't somehow hundreds of years old and trying to keep it a secret? Ludwig is the first to recover. "Machigatta desu," he says, and then he grabs my shoulder and starts steering me back in the general direction of my room. (You're wrong.)

I don't resist, even though he is using unnecessary roughness, his thumb digging into my collarbone. Gilbert, however, jumps to defend me. I don't like it, being saved like I can't protect myself; but I'm just tired of this, and I'm losing my ability to care what happens at this point.

Kiku materializes behind Gilbert. I guess he heard the raised voices and came to see what he can do to keep the peace. If he didn't kidnap me, Kiku would seem like a pretty cool guy. Because Gilbert doesn't want for the soldiers or Ludwig to take me back to my room, and Ludwig doesn't want for Gilbert to, the compromise is for Kiku to do it. But while they were arguing, I heard it—Gilbert slipped up, starting to call Kiku Nihon. Japan. He corrected himself, of course, and he shot me a worried glance, as if he was wondering if I caught his mistake, and if I did, what I would make of it. I tried not to give any signals that I did.

So, I walk slightly in front of Kiku, hands shoved in my pockets. It's been a quiet and awkward couple of minutes, but I've been thinking too much to notice it. "Nihon," I finally pluck up my courage to say. I watch his reaction out of the corner of my eye. "Anata wa Nihon desu ka?" (Japan. Are you Japan?)

He stiffens as he walks and looks at me, hands curled into fists. That is the most of a response that I get from him. When he speaks, he sounds just as cool and collected as usual. "Watashi no namae wa Kiku desu. Nihon-jin desu." (My name is Kiku. I'm Japanese.)

I keep looking at him for a few more moments, keeping my expression unconvinced, just because I like how uncomfortable it seems to make him. Then I let out a slight, "Hm," and turn my eyes forward. I think of ways to tip him off that I know who he really is. Or, maybe I could use the information as my secret weapon. Surprise them enough to escape.

"Sumimasen," Kiku asks, breaking through my thoughts. I glance over at him to show I'm listening. He looks uncomfortable. "…Anime wo mimasuka?" (Excuse me. Do you watch anime?)

I give him a ghost of a smile. A smirk. An I know your secret expression. And his discomfort at that makes me happy. Small revenge is better than none. After all he's done to me, knowing the secret he keeps closest is mine to reveal if I so please. He can't do anything about it, and he knows it. He doesn't ask again, proving that it wasn't just chit chat.

Kiku walks in front of me to unlock the red door to my room, and he stands aside. Though his expression remains neutral, I can feel his gaze questioning me, perhaps wondering how I got the information, if I really understand. I look back at him, raising my eyebrows. I'm not quite sure what message I'm trying to convey, but I see it has an effect as Kiku closes the door and locks it.

"Issa?" Josh asks at once, his voice muffled from the vent.

"Yeah, I'm here," I call back, walking to the air duct and lying down in front of it.

As soon as the words leave my mouth he exhales sharply. "Oh my gosh, don't do that! I woke up and you were gone! I—I thought they killed you or something! What happened?" he demands.

I raise myself up on my elbows, taken aback by his intensity. "Dude, I'm fine! Nothing happened. I just—" I take a deep breath and start again. "You know how we were talking about how they look like the guys from Hetalia?"

"Yes…." His reply is skeptical, still slightly angry and scared, and I can tell he just wants for me to answer his question.

"I—I think they're real. Those guys, I—I think they really are the countries." I hear him scoff, and I jump to defend my theory. "No, it's just— I met Prussia, okay? And it's the way they talk to each other, and they occasionally accidentally call each other by their country names."

"So what?! Maybe they've seen it too, and they're just trying to mess with our heads!"

"No, they literally looked scared when I started to piece it together. I asked Kiku if he was Japan, and—well, of course he denied it—but after, he asked me if I watched anime. He wasn't just making small talk—he wanted to know if I knew."

"What did you say to him?"

"Nothing. I just tried to be mysterious."

The emotion in his voice drops, and he gives a weak chuckle. "Mysterious. How'd that work out?"

"I think I sent my message clear enough," I respond, changing positions to lie on my stomach, arms as a pillow.

Josh doesn't answer for a while, and I feel bad for scaring him. I just lie there for a while, listening to the vent noises and the many footsteps of people outside my room. "So, you think you're right?" he asks after a while. "They're real?"

"…I can't be sure. They're definitely hiding something, and the only thing that fits is what they really are."

"How do you do that?" I'm about to ask what it is exactly that I can do when he clarifies, "Read people's minds?"

"I'm not reading their minds," I correct, "just their body language. I—I don't really know. I guess I've just had a lot of time to practice."

"…Are you talking about school?"

The blunt question brings me up short. "Yeah," I finally respond. "I don't have any friends; what am I supposed to do? No one will tell me if I'm annoying them or not, so I have to piece out the answer myself." I'm surprised at myself for telling him this, and even more surprised that I could sort out my feelings into words. Every time I try to explain it to my mom or my sister, I end up babbling gibberish. This is also a very personal bit of information about myself; all the time, I try to act like I don't care, that I'm perfectly fine on my own, which, most of the time, I am. But there are days when I cry myself to sleep because I'm lonely and I know if I try to do something about it, I'll end up lonelier than before.

"…Wow. That sucks."

"Tell me about it."

The conversation dies after that, and we both let it. I'm too tired to think, so I just lie there, comfortable on the carpeted floor. "What time do you think it is?" Josh asks through a yawn.

"I don't know." I yawn, too. "Past my bedtime."

He laughs softly. "Me, too."

"Sorry—I realize I didn't tell you what happened." I take a deep breath. "Prussia came by—well, Italy came by first, but he left fairly quickly—anyway, Prussia. He took me out of my room to try to teach me Japanese. I got mad at him because I didn't want him to help me—now that I'm back, I kinda wonder why. I guess it was kind of a pride thing. Anyway—Germany found us arguing, and then he and Prussia started arguing, and then Japan came and took me back. And then that's it."

"Aw. You should've stayed and learned, and then you could've helped me."

"I know," I say regretfully. "Like I said—pride thing. I don't want to be treated like a kid."

"Enh, I dunno. If being treated like an adult means they can beat me up all the time, I'd choose to be treated like a kid."

"Makes sense."

Josh yawns again. "Seriously, though. The sun's up and everything, but it should be, like, past midnight."

"Yeah." I yawn, too. "If we're going to be staying here for a long time, I'm just not going to try to change my sleeping schedule. They took me from America; they can deal with me during American daytime."

"That seems kinda risky," he comments. "They're all bigger and stronger than us. Therefore, they can hurt us if we don't do what they say."

I snort when he says 'bigger and stronger.' "You do realize I'm, like, a foot taller than Japan, right?"

"Yeah, okay, enjoy being tall. Meanwhile, I'm over here sitting pretty at 5'3"."

I laugh. "It's not my fault!" I protest. "I guess it's my dad's fault. I passed my mom when I was twelve."

"Yeah, it's my dad's fault I'm short," he complains. "Greg—my brother—got Mom's tall genes."

"I know who your brother is," I tell him. "I mean, your mom is my mom's best friend, so it's kinda hard not to know all of your family."

"Touché," he hums. It's quiet for a while after that. I start thinking about our families. Josh reads my mind and speaks before I can. "I wonder what they're doing right now."

"I don't know," I respond. "Probably sleeping, considering the time."

"Maybe." He pauses. "What if they're not? What if they're awake still? I know I can't sleep; too worried…."

I think about that, and it makes me sad. I picture Mom sitting awake by the phone in the kitchen, possibly a mug of untouched coffee in her hands, waiting for a call that won't come. My mind brings me to the next morning; she'll be there, finally asleep with her head on the counter, and Renae will walk up and have to see her with tear tracks down her face.

"They'll be fine," I make myself say. "They have to be."

"We must be all over the news," he muses. "I mean, kidnapped in broad daylight, hundreds of witnesses, no way to escape from the police, but somehow, they managed it. We got here in less than half an hour, a whole different continent. That's some news-worthy stuff."

"I don't want to be on the news," I admit. "People will look at me funny when we get back."

"They're going to either way," he points out. I sigh and agree, and I curl my legs up. "I just want to go home, man. I don't care how weird people look at me."

"Yeah…," I concur forlornly.

After that, I fall asleep again. And I don't wake up until the door opens.

knock knock

whos there

abrupt and stupid chapter ending