WARNING - THERE IS A 90% CHANCE THIS CHAPTER WILL MAKE YOU CRY. IF YOU ARE ONE THAT IS TRIGGERED BY DEATH AND DEPRESSION AND DEATH AND THINGS OF THE LIKE, I RECOMMEND YOU DO NOT READ THIS CHAPTER. Actually nevermind, do what you want. But I cried a little bit, and I wrote it so... Heads up, it's in Russia's POV.

The great war had ended in Europe, and the Allies were busy rebuilding and saving the remaining prisoners. One of the members of the Allies, the Soviet Union, had disappeared mysteriously in the midst of battle, shortly after the Nazis invaded him. It is unknown of his whereabouts, but his close friends and family fear he has been taken prisoner, which makes the search for obscure and secret containment camps all the more important. The Allies and other nations are searching vehemently for these POWs and believe they are close to finding them all. Yet the personification of the USSR remains lost in time...

There's no one left. Except him. He was the only one in the entire prisoner-of-war camp that was still alive, and even then he felt like there was only a part of him left. Only half a man, half nothing. He couldn't think straight anymore, just broken cries and wisps of once complete thoughts. He couldn't really feel anything, his physical senses far too dulled after disease and infection ran rampant through his veins. The only emotion that far surpassed the rest was the sense of abandonment. Because that's what had happened right? He had been taken from his home and abandoned in a field, a field that used to be teeming with life but now only stank of death. And he was lonely, very very lonely.

If only I was human, he'd thought wistfully once, I could die along with my comrades... But no, his own fleeting immortality had cursed him to represent an entire country and himself too. Although now it felt as if he wasn't even connected to his own home anymore, even though his mind knew he was. If he wasn't Russia he wasn't anyone. Just a shattered mirror, cursed for much longer than seven years. But he was still alive, if you could even call it that.

Everyday he'd wake up from a long sleep (he'd been sleeping longer and longer lately), and wander around the field, stumbling over sprawled out corpses and slipping on pools of blood and waste. He could hear someone crying, wailing, moaning, sometimes all at once, and he pretended he was looking for that someone so he could help them. Yet as he covered every square inch of the field, kicking every body to see if they were alive, he never ever found anyone. Except for himself.

In the beginning of this, when he'd been newly taken to here by his long lost friend and a new person he'd never met before (at least, not fully), he had thought that he could be saved soon. He thought his friends would find him, free him. At least back then he had someone to keep him company, he had his comrades who tried to help each other. They all had the same goal of escaping.

But they died.

Sooner than later, he was staring down at the lifeless faces of his people, own body hacking and shriveling and barely bearing the own conditions that brought his human friends down. Their clothes had been taken by the evil guards and taken to the soldiers murdering their families. It was disgusting how he was assisting the Germans with his own pain, and it was one of the things he dreamt about often. His old rival Prussia, wearing his warm winter clothes, shooting down the sisters he loved. He didn't like to remember those nightmares in the mornings.

Squishy... It was another one of those broken thoughts of his as he lay in the sludge that covered everything in sight. All of the remains of the people contributed to the squishiness, and he knew there wasn't much left he himself could contribute. His body wasn't completely still, as he had yet to find a way to stop shaking. He'd been trembling ever since the first cannon shell struck in June, and his constant crying didn't help. It was also difficult to breathe, as his body tried to do occasionally. He would usually end up hacking out some of his dead organs, which didn't help him at all. Especially since his body had already eaten up most of his muscles in an attempt to stay alive, and was moving on to the unimportant organs. The hunger had been unbearable for most of the people in the camp, resorting to cannibalism to meet their needs. But now that the bodies were infested with insects and were decomposing he couldn't eat them anymore.

The clouds above didn't seem to be moving, and no birds or anything of the like flew past. It was deadly quiet, and he let out a few soft whimpers to fill the gap; but everything was still empty. Suddenly, a dark figure streaked across the sky, the roar of engines highly noticeable. His breath hitched, the possibility of allies making his slow mind race. Were there still people looking for him? He'd ruled out that possibility long ago as the pain gripped his heart tighter and tighter. He really had been abandoned but now... Maybe there was someone out there! His body moaned in protest as he stood up, but if there were allies out there he had to make himself seen.

Slowly he stumbled over his fallen friends, aiming to get to the fence. He was solely fueled by adrenaline at this point. When he made it he did all he could to make noise so that maybe the pilot of the plane would help him, get him out of there. But his small burst of energy was running out, and time seemed to stretch out longer and longer. His grip on the fence weakened, and perhaps his grip on reality too.

Finally he gave up, arms falling down at his sides, head resting against the fence. The plane wasn't real, they hadn't really come to save him. I was hallucinating. Upon reaching that conclusion, Russia slumped against the fence, his chest tightened. He wanted to scream, but for the longest time he couldn't do it. He just simply didn't have any energy left to do anything, and he thought he would lay there forever.