Chapter 3
Absolutely no sun shines outside, almost no light penetrates the stifling dimness of the hallway you're sitting in, because the windows are all closed and shuttered tight. A lone lamp just above you casts a morose little glow over you only, from your head to the tips of your boots, borrowed from Arthur. If you ignore the fact that you're completely alone in the hallway by yourself, you can just barely deceive yourself into thinking you're in the spotlight, the star of some show, whose every move is being watched by an unseen audience.
After a while even this becomes excruciatingly boring, and you stretch tiredly in your seat. According to your (borrowed) watch, it's only been ten minutes, but it feels even longer. Despite yourself you feel a little anger at Alfred and Arthur — maybe a bit more at Arthur, for being mean about it. You're perfectly aware that you're not actually allowed into the meeting until you're officially recognized as a country, but there's no reason for them to leave you out here and make you feel like a total loner. Arthur especially, had done a great job of the latter. He wouldn't even let you stay at his house (well, that might be understandable) or even someplace of your own choosing.
He had provided you with some food — in the form of a little warm wrapped package currently lying by your side — but you hardly felt any better when Alfred whispered in your ear that "his cooking might be dangerous to people who can't stomach it." It hadn't helped your impression of the Englishman, either.
You look at the package and away again. You scuff your boots lightly along the tiled floor, then remember too late who they belong to, and sigh softly to yourself as you anticipate his reaction when he finds out. It takes up the next several minutes, carefully planning out exactly what he would say and what mean words he would use. What fun.
Finally, as the hunger pangs become impossible to ignore, you decide that one look at Arthur's supposedly lethal food probably wouldn't be too bad. Tentatively, you reach for the package and unwrap it slowly, uncovering three small scones.
...It doesn't look too bad, at least. It actually smells pretty good, too. But dare you try it?
In the end you decide you're much too hungry to really care anymore. Indeed, you feel as if you haven't eaten in decades. And that's saying a lot, in your opinion.
Still you hesitate as you lift a scone halfway to your mouth. Alfred hadn't seemed to be lying when he was talking about Arthur's food; and you feel somewhat inclined to trust him. But then again you feel inclined to trust the two of them at once. You just don't know why.
Ah well, here goes nothing, you say to yourself as you take a bite out of the scone and chew slowly. The moment you do, however, loud yelling erupts from behind the closed doors just to the right of your chair — the doors Arthur and Alfred entered into — and you can't help but get up and try to find out what's going on.
Though the doors are closed you can still hear a little, by pressing your ear to the small crack in the doorway between the hinges. There's no keyhole to look through, so this seems to be your only choice.
You listen.
You can hear many accents and many different languages, some of which you can somewhat recognize and others which sound totally out of this world. But you don't have time to worry about that because all of a sudden you can hear two raised voices over the din, one of them with a very familiar British accent.
"I'm going to beat the crap out of you if you insult my country any further!" you hear Arthur shout.
"Ohonhonhon~!" another country guffaws. "I'd like to watch you try, you weak little — OW! Okay, that does it!" There is the sound of a scuffle being resumed, and you decide you can't dally any longer. Arthur may be unpleasant but he did save you and you have to admit you wouldn't want him to get hurt — not over something like his country's pride, at least.
There is no time to lose. You try the door and to your surprise it opens inward. Without hesitation you dash into the room, the creak of the door barely audible over the cacophony that is dozens of countries talking or arguing or fighting — the latter of which is happening over in a corner by the window, where you can just discern two blond heads belonging to two people trading blows. They're moving so quickly that you can't quite tell who they are, but then you catch a glimpse of humongous dark eyebrows and you're absolutely sure it's him.
"H-hey! ST-STOP!" You shout, running towards them and somehow managing to push them apart. "D-don't hurt Arthur!" Arthur is speechless as you pull him aside, with the help of several other countries (who look at you oddly), and you note in surprise and relief that both of them are relatively unscathed, save their clothes which are the only indication of their fight.
Then you slowly turn to face Arthur's opponent, who is looking at you with very blue eyes. You only briefly notice that he has longish blond hair, almost shoulder-length, with a little hint of stubble on his chin. Handsome, maybe, but there is something about him that's not altogether...
"Ohonhon~!" he laughs disturbingly, getting a bit too close for your liking. You involuntarily take a step back, but you remain glaring at him. "Why, is this the new country, _ , you were talking about, mon cher Angleterre?"
Mon cher...that's French, you think, amazed at yourself for actually understanding and then horrified as the truth begins to sink in. Oh no, oh no no no...This…this can't be...
"The name is France — that is, Francis Bonnefoy," he says graciously in what you now know to be a French accent. He extends his hand, but you do not take it, just stare at it (and him) in terrified realization. "I suppose you have not yet been given a proper welcome, considering no one allowed you into the meeting before — well, come with me, you can be sure Big Brother France will give you one to remember — OW!"
You turn just in time to see Arthur break free and give him a resounding smack upside the head. France tries to hit him back; as you look on in horror they resume fighting just as before, blows punctuated with insults, and it is hopeless to intervene.
"They are always like that, those two. But you do not have to worry about them being hurt — they would never really harm each other."
A new voice sounds from behind you, and you turn around to behold another country with the kindest-looking face you have ever seen in your life. Although you have to crane your neck a bit to look at him — he towers over you, being much, much taller. Though it isn't that cold in the meeting room, he still wears a heavy tan coat, topped off with a long thick scarf around his neck. He's also holding a pipe, which is odd and very much out of place here in a meeting room.
"I heard what Frantsiya was saying," he says to you in heavy accented English. "So you are the new country, correct?"
"Um — uh, yes, I guess so," you find yourself replying. "My name's _ ."
"Ah," he says thoughtfully. "That is a good name, da. It is very nice to meet you — my name is Russia, though you may call me Ivan Braginsky..."
You can almost feel your face contort in horror as you stare at this man, this apparently innocent and kind-looking country, this obviously harmless and polite-looking and all-around nice-seeming person — thiswas Russia, Ivan Braginsky, one of the most dangerous countries in the world!?
Evidently you've spent way too much time dallying and wallowing about in mental horror. Russia is already moving and before you know it he is looming over you, having captured your shoulders in a vicelike grip. You try not to hyperventilate — each one of his hands is at least several times bigger than your shoulders!
A freaky purple aura surrounds him, his violet eyes are staring into yours with a very mesmerizingly creepy expression, and his previously friendly smile now has a hint of darkness in it. Or, you think in panic, too much.
"Become one with Mother Russia, da?" he says in a low voice.
You don't stop to think of a safe answer, you don't pause to wonder why a male country would be referring to himself as "Mother," you don't even have time to think about the implications of his obviously ridiculous question, because you've just thankfully, fortunately remembered a little something Arthur told you before and all of a sudden you're screaming at the top of your lungs, just one name.
"GERMANY! GEERMANYYYY! HEEEELP!"
And before you know it you've been forcibly wrenched away from Russia (oh God thank God), but it seems you've just flown out of the frying pan and into the fire because now you're dangling from another muscular arm and this time you're looking into the face of an extremely stern, extremely intimidating-looking country who's almost as tall as Russia and no less scary.
"U-uh...hi Germany?" you squeak, because obviously this must be Germany or you might've just died in Russia's arms back there. But he looks suspiciously at you, and it is not a good sign. All other activity, be it fighting, yelling, arguing or breathing, has suddenly stopped and the room is now deathly quiet. Maybe it was your screams for help, or maybe it was Germany's reaction — at any rate, things are looking even worse than before.
Movement at the corner of your eye draws your attention — it's Alfred and Arthur, both running towards you and Germany at top speed.
"Hey Germany, put _ down!" Alfred is saying as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened, although you can detect a slight nervous tremor in his voice. " _ 's a harmless new country we found just this morning, harmless, trust me (we just don't know which country, but we're trying to find out…)!"
You wonder if you should speak up to support their point. But just as you make up your mind to do so a bubbly-looking, brown-haired country, with a funny little side curl, comes running up to Germany and tugs on his other arm.
"Germany, Germany!" he shouts, jumping up and down in glee. "It's a new country, put 'em down, I wanna see, I wanna see~!"
He seems to have quite an influence on Germany, because soon after the stern country sets you down on the floor (albeit reluctantly), and you hear both Alfred and Arthur breathe audible sighs of relief. Germany still stands beside you, though — you're definitely not going to be running away anytime soon.
"Ciao, my name's Italy~!" the bubbly country cries happily in (no doubt) an Italian accent. "Nice to meet you, _ , I've always wanted a new country for a friend, ve~!" And before you can react Italy has you trapped in a hug and is kissing your cheek cheerfully. You freeze in shock and feel your face grow hot.
"Um, Italy…" you squeak helplessly. He doesn't let go, instead cooing and burying his face in your hair. Great.
"Veneziano you bastardo, let go right now or there won't be a new country," a harsher voice commands, just as you resign yourself to captivity in Italy's arms. The country speaking, you notice, strongly resembles Italy, from the uniform to the curl in his hair (although it's not on the side). Must be his brother, you think.
"But Romano, _ 's so cute~!" Italy squeals, before being dragged away by the taller Italian, Romano. You can finally breathe again, although your face still feels like it's on fire.
"All right, enough fuss," Germany's harsh voice cuts through the air, and that's when you realize you're surrounded on all sides by countries. Although Alfred and Arthur are probably milling around helplessly somewhere outside the crowd, and Italy (held in check by Romano) is still standing cheerfully beside Germany, the others don't look friendly. At all.
"So. For starters. Who are you, and why did you infiltrate our meeting?" Germany demands. "Are you some sort of spy?"
"N-no!" you protest, despite the fact that Germany doesn't believe you. You're going to argue this even if it's a losing argument. "I'm not a spy – I'm not on any sides – I don't even know who I am!" You try to explain what happened since you awoke and found yourself in Russia, condensed version. Germany still looks unmoved, however.
"We find that extremely hard to believe when you're armed," he says. But how could that be true? You can attest to that yourself — you have absolutely no weapons whatsoever, unless that little star on the breast pocket counts as a weapon. You check and see a bulge in one of your side pockets.
"Oh, you mean this?" You take out the small paper package that contains Arthur's scones. "It's food." Because Germany doesn't look like he believes it (oh, really now, could you have slipped a knife in there without them looking?) you open it and show him.
His reaction (as well as that of all the other countries present in the room, save Arthur) is priceless.