Looking around, Germany sighed. If it wasn't for the whole 'nations can't die' thing, he was fairly sure he would have died of a conniption well before now. As it was, he was currently contemplating shooting himself in the head with one of the many guns Eng- no, the British Empire, he corrected himself, had lying around in his tent.
Who left that many guns lying around, anyway? Was the man related to Switzerland or something?
He dodged a stray dagger and went to sit near Russia. Not the best of company, admittedly, but it was better than anyone else, at the moment. God, even Japan had joined the fray. He didn't blame him- after all, there was only so much snark one could take before they snapped, as Japan was currently demonstrating, but really. It was like they'd never left. People were fighting, furniture (or as close as you could get, being in a tent and all) was being destroyed, and weapons were flying through the air. It was as close as you could get to the G8 without actually being there. Except, you know, the weapons were actually sharp. And there were a whole lot more of them. And okay, maybe the British Empire actually meant half the threats he was spewing, but it wasn't like they could actually do anything, since, you know, the nations couldn't exactly die.
Except that last one. That one sounded pretty nasty. Where would you even get something like that anyway- oh, wait, it was England. Well, not England per se, but it wasn't like he was any different from the England he knew. And the England he knew always had nasty shit like that in his basement.
Germany shuddered, and derailed that train of thought right there. No use dwelling on the past. He mentally shook himself, and turned to face Russia.
"So," he started weakly, "it's a, um… lovely… day, isn't it?"
Russia smiled at him, and reached up to catch a frantically cheeping Gilbird as it flew past.
Lobbing it back to an equally frantic Prussia, he replied, "But Germany, it's sunset already. Doesn't that mean the day's over?"
Germany opened his mouth to respond, but found that he couldn't quite remember what he was going to say. He settled instead for a eloquently croaked "I- er- um, well, yes." and awkwardly shifted back around to watch the ongoing chaos.
The British Empire cursed, and dodged some kind of white bird thing that was thrown at his head. Fucking imbeciles. He'd done them the kindness of actually listening to them, hell, he'd even rescued them from Harry, and that fucking frenchie had gone and groped him in the middle of his fucking explanation. He hissed, hurriedly leaping backwards to avoid being stabbed through the leg with one of his own daggers. That was the last time he was ever helping out any prisoners ever again. They could all die from hanging upside-down, for all he cared. He'd seen it. Their heads literally exploded. It was quite fun to watch, actually. Even if it was kind of messy.
He dodged a flying potato (how the hell had that got there?) and punched the stupid frog in the stomach, smirking at the subsequent stream of French expletives. Okay, so maybe he had missed fighting everyone else more than he thought.
That still didn't explain how they got here. Or how they would get back. After all, it wasn't like he wanted them to stay. He was in the middle of a fucking rebellion here, people.
Canada wasn't quite sure how he ended up in the tent settlement, but he assumed it had something to do with the fact that he was currently lying on the ground alongside Italy, surrounded by a rather large group of hostile looking sailors. And that one girl, too.
He rolled over and nudged Italy, waking him up from the hysteria-induced trance he'd been in. It wasn't like Italy would be any help, but it was better than being stuck next to a comatose Belarus and a dead England.
Wait.
England.
England was dead.
Shit.
The chaos in the British Empire's tent (or, what was left of it), abruptly stopped as a burly sailor (seriously, what was up with all these sailors? Were they all on steroids or something?) shoved his way into the tent.
"Oi! Cap'n! We foun' som'ing ya' migh' wan' ta' see!"
England- no wait, it was the British Empire, wasn't it, glared at the man from his perch atop a sizeable pile of nations.
"If you hadn't noticed, I'm a little busy here, so just leave it by the entrance."
The man shifted a bit. "Well, y'see, cap'n, its- its kinda, um… impor'an'."
The British Empire's glare intensified.
"Well don't just stand there, man, bring it in!"
The sailor looked slightly embarrassed. "Well, I woul', bu', it migh' be dangerous, an' I don' really like movin' upse' people aroun' too much, 'cause, you know, it kinda makes it worse, an-"
The sailor was cut off as the German brothers, moving as one, rushed out of the slightly tattered tent, leaving the rest of the nations (and the sailor) to stare after them.
"Well," remarked America, slightly shocked by the spectacle, "looks like they found the rest of us."
The British Empire swung round to stare at America. "You mean there are more of you?"
America laughed sheepishly. "Well, yeah, but they're not exactly dangerous, I mean, there are only four of them, and two of them are unconscious, so it's not like they could actually, y'know, do anything."
"Hmph. Well, I might as well go and look them over."
The British Empire scooped up a pistol from its resting place in the fabric of the tent floor and stalked out of the tent, muttering something about 'ingrates' and 'exploding heads'. America didn't want to know.
Prussia shouldered his way through the crowd of sailors, muttering obscenities as he went. Stupid fucking sailors, he thought, giving one a particularly nasty jab with his elbow. Who the fuck patrols that far up, anyway? Shit, we could have been out of there with the goods in half a minute, if that fucking frenchie had've done what I said. Prussia elbowed someone else in the gut, and made a note to decimate France's wine collection when he got back. If he ever got back.
Breaking free of the ring of sailors, he made a beeline for Canada, and grabbed him in the hope of maybe calming him down and getting him to speak coherently.
It didn't work.
Instead, Canada grabbed him, nearly breaking his ribs, and began babbling hysterically in some sort of mix of French and English about England being dead or some shit like that.
Prussia gingerly patted the top of Canada's head. "Dude. Canada. Nations can't die."
"But- but Germany said that we could be mortal here and England's not breathing and his face has gone a weird greenish colour and he might be dead and I don't know what to do!"
Prussia winced. "Canada, bro, you're breaking my ribs. Maybe ease up a little on the bear hug, yeah?"
Canada let go of him immediately and began hyperventilating.
Prussia sighed. Crouching down beside him, he put an arm around Canada in a sort of awkward, one-armed hug. "Look, Canada, I'm sure he'll be fine. He's been though worse, and it's not like he's wounded or anything."
Canada nodded, calming down.
Prussia looked over to where Germany was, only to find him attempting to calm a hysterically crying Italy down. He snickered. His brother was so whipped.
There was a shout from behind him, and he turned around to see the sailors scatter. The British Empire casually sauntered over to them.
"Well now, what do we have here?"
He raised a massive eyebrow, surveying the rather weak-looking nations.
"They don't look too dangerous to me."
Prussia glared at him. "Look, asshole, I just got Canada calmed down, and I don't want you scaring the shit out of him. Go annoy West or something."
The British Empire glared right back at him. "I'll 'annoy' whoever the hell I want to, bitch."
A choking sound coming from beside Prussia made them look over.
Canada was frozen in shock, staring up at the man who looked like England's clone. As Prussia watched, he turned a sickly shade of white and fainted. Prussia stared down at the comatose nation in his lap.
"Well, shit."
The British Empire shrugged and sauntered off to where Germany and what looked like Italy were having an intense bonding moment. It wasn't like it was his fault the kid (what had Prussia called him? Canadia?) had fainted upon his arrival. These nations-from-another-world were just weaklings.
Something caught his eye as he crossed the circle. A few strands of platinum-blonde hair, wafting in the breeze. He froze.
Holy shit.
The sound of a gunshot rang through the air.
Spain froze where he was as the British Empire advanced on him, holding what looked very much like a loaded pistol.
"Explain. Now."
He pointed to the inert form lying on the ground. Spain swallowed, trying his hardest not to turn and run.
"W-What do you mean? It's- That's, um, Belarus, isn't it?"
The British Empire looked ready to shoot someone. Namely, Spain.
"Well of course it's Belarus, you fucking moron! What I want to know is why you brought her into my camp!"
"…What?"
The British Empire twitched. "What I want to know," he began, "is why, and how, you managed to bring the most dangerous person on the face of the planet into my camp. Or is that too complicated for your stupid fucking brain to comprehend?"
Spain stared at him blankly, attempting (and failing) to process the sight of the loaded gun shoved directly in his face. His mouth opened and closed a few times, like a demented goldfish that had eaten too many tomatoes.
"…What?"
The British Empire's expression darkened, and his finger tightened on the trigger.
"Last chance, moron." he hissed, menace radiating from every line of his body. "Explain."
Spain stared at him, his brain broken.
"I- er- but, that's Belarus. What do you mean, explain?"
The British Empire growled at him.
And Spain, being the complete and utter moron that he is, smiled right back at him.
For the second time that day, a gunshot rang through the air.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA CLIFFHANGERRRRR
/shot repeatedly
I don't really have much to say about this chapter, other than I seem to be getting worse at writing.
BEAR WITH ME, PEOPLE.
Okay, unrelated rant time.
For all those aspiring writers out there, I have one thing to say to you.
THE PRESENT TENSE OF 'LOST' IS NOT, HAS NEVER BEEN, AND NEVER WILL BE, 'LOOSE'
THAT IS A COMPLETELY. DIFFERENT. WORD.
The present tense of 'lost' is'lose'.
'Loose' means 'to not be tight'; 'to be free with money, sexual favours or other things' or 'to fasten something in such a way that it is not tight'; for example, "I tied my shoelaces very badly and they are now loose" or "That is a loose woman; stay away from her". Seriously you guys, I take standard. fucking. English. And I still know the difference. PAY ATTENTION TO YOUR ENGLISH TEACHER. THEY KNOW THINGS.
Now, I know a lot of you don't make this mistake, and I'm probably doing that generalising thing again and lumping you all into one category, but this just makes me so pissed. It ruins good fanfics.
That is all.
