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Chapter Four: The Black Veil of Patriotism

September 28, 1939
Warsaw, Poland

Should not, would not, could not.

That was Poland's point of view on the prospect of his surrender. The very thought of it made him grimace, and if he had to use the term, he spat it out like the most vulgar of concepts. "Surrender" had become a dirty word once again, and he refused to let it escape from his lips unless it was in the negative.

Poland is not yet lost as long as we still live! Wasn't that how it was supposed to be in the end? A tattered, beaten country still standing strong in spite of everything its enemies had thrown at it? It couldn't have come to this, could it? Cornered, bloody, scared, trying not to cry as his soldiers and his capitol—his beautiful, beautiful Warsaw, his very heart—surrendered to Germany and his troops.

You might think that being conquered got easier, that maybe you got just a little more used to it over time. It never did. Every surrender was like a knife to the heart; it was the worst feeling in the world, hands down. To have your country essentially dissolved and made a part of another, to have someone tell you that you weren't you anymore, you weren't a sovereign nation, you weren't anything… It never got easier, and you never got used to it. Poland sat, huddled in the corner of an alleyway, nervously fingering the cloth over the bandages that he hadn't bothered to unwrap from his arm and had left hidden beneath the sleeve of his coat. The wound they'd covered had healed long ago, but Poland simply hadn't had the time to take them off. The thought hadn't so much as occurred to him yet. He'd had so much else on his mind, defending a country that simply couldn't keep up.

"I always hate leaving the lost causes."

Poland rocked back and forth, trying to simultaneously choke a mouthful of air down into his lungs and mask his breath on the off chance that Germany would hear it. To be honest, it was more Poland's by-now insurmountable paranoia than anything, but he still couldn't quite bring himself to calm down even the slightest bit, not so long as he knew that Germany was closing in. The more he thought about it, the sicker the weakened Nation felt. He kept frantically reviewing battle after battle in his head, wondering where he'd gone wrong and if he could possibly have prevented his loss by doing this instead of that or going here instead of there. Poland wished more than anything to go back and try again, because, just maybe, he could've been in the right place at the right time to step on the right butterfly to fix this unacceptable outcome.

Poland swallowed nervously and stroked the barrel of his gun, his grip tightening and then loosening every so often, a habit born of frenzy and fear. He kept the rifle close, just in case he needed to use it. Just in case he could. He shoved a few tangled, dirty locks of hair away from his eyes and glanced out into the street, scanning the area for his enemy. There was no sign of his pushy and heavily-armed neighbor, but Poland couldn't help but hesitate in the darkness of the alley, not quite ready to make the dash into the fully exposed road.

Poland had two goals: to meet up with a few members of his government, and to get out of the city and run for some place safer, not that anywhere in his country really applied. He was entertaining the idea of splitting for France's; his so-called ally would have no choice but to take him in, if only at the behest of a guilty conscience. Poland scowled. England and France, Europe's great powers, had been utterly useless to him. While the eastern country had to admit that he hadn't expected to have them at his back on the front lines, fighting alongside him at Wizna or Westerplatte, he had dared to hope that they would do more than drop a few leaflets, blockade Germany—whoop-de-do—and put on that pathetic excuse for any sort of offensive that France had been so kind as to muster up for him. On the other hand, Poland reasoned miserably, if he had been able to hold out longer, he would have given them more time to prepare and they could've lent a real hand to his increasingly desperate war efforts. He hadn't been so lucky, but at the very least, Poland figured he would at least get a place to stay out of the deal. If he could get out of his defeated country, anyway.

Poland had always liked when people claimed that resistance was futile, because that meant that he got to prove them wrong.

Poland risked another glance out into the open street. No sign of Germany yet, but he found that more worrying that comforting. It was highly unlikely that the victorious invader would be anywhere but right on Poland's tail. Fortunately, the ability that Nations had to sense others of their kind mostly applied to the battlefield, so Poland could at least count on the fact that Germany would have to find him the old-fashioned way to give him what little comfort such knowledge brought. Perhaps, the fearful country wished pitifully, he had been held up by business. There was surrender to witness, after all. Germany had won the war. Well... Poland mentally reworded his sentence, holding tightly to any shred of hope he could find. The troops of Poland may have laid down their arms, but if Germany expected the same from the Nation himself, he certainly had another thing coming. Poland had far too much fight left in him to give up now, and he suspected the same of his people. He would've smiled at the thought of the resistance that he knew Germany would have to deal with, but recently, Poland had found himself too tired to smile. Too sad. Too beat up. Too nauseous. Too all of the above, at once.

"My country on the front lines, huh?"

"Always."

"That's almost poetic."

Poland shouldered his rifle and reached for his pistol, taking a chance and darting out into the street. If he was lucky, Germany had remained with the army. Granted, that still left him Prussia and Austria, and it was unlikely that all three of them would sit back and relax while knowing that Poland was still out and about, ready to tear their victory to pieces at the first possible opportunity. Poland hurried down the empty lane, heading for the address he'd been given by a messenger from his boss. There was an apartment building where he was supposed to meet certain members of his government—as Poland had always known, neither he nor his people were much for giving up. Poland slowed to a stop as he approached the next corner, peeking around to the next stage of his path, making sure it was reasonably free of danger. Some trouble Poland could handle. That was what the gun was for, after all. Had he seen anything, he would've put a bullet in it and kept running, but the coast was blessedly clear, so Poland picked up his pace again, trying to ignore both his growing fear and the nausea that just wouldn't go away. He blamed it on the loss; Nations never felt quite well after the country they represented took a nasty beating, and, really who could blame them?

Poland screamed suddenly as a bullet tore through the back of his shoulder, only a few inches away from hitting his neck. He dropped his pistol from the sheer shock of it, giving it up in favor of safety. His hand flying upwards to cover the damaged skin, he dove for the nearest cover, the very welcome side of a building, and reached for his rifle with the hand of his uninjured arm, now painted bright red. He couldn't possibly fire his rifle, not at this distance and not with this injury. How long had Germany been right behind him? Had he just gotten unlucky, or had he been leading his enemy the entire time? Poland swore under his breath and angled his rifle to use as a melee weapon; he had serious doubts in his ability to shoot it one-handed. Knowing that he wasn't getting away from Germany—is it even Germany? he wondered—at this point, as he would've been hit somewhere much more fatal before he'd covered any distance at all, he could only hope to buy himself a little time to get out of sight. He glanced quickly down at his arm, hoping he wouldn't leave a blood trail or something as he tried to escape.

Germany rounded the corner and Poland launched forward before his invader—not conqueror, never conqueror—could have a chance to prepare. Germany almost managed to get out of the way of the butt of Poland's rifle, and although it the corner of it hit his arm, he maintained focus. Poland swore again, ducking out of Germany's way and into the street. Germany turned and fired at him; it was a good shot, but Poland saw him coming and ducked out of the bullet's way even before his enemy got the chance to pull the trigger. The smaller Nation's new injury was doing him no favors, especially not in close combat, and he struggled to pick up the slack. Darting back into the street where he'd been injured, ignoring the rust-colored splatters decorating the concrete, he dropped to the ground as Germany fired again, rolling towards his gun and coming up shooting. Germany was long gone, however, and the bigger Nation lashed out, the butt of his pistol coming into harsh contact with the side of Poland's head. A shocked cry escaped from Poland's lips and he fell hard onto the pavement, struggling to regain his bearings and shooting once again in Germany's general direction.

Inevitably, he missed, and scolded himself instantly for wasting the bullet. It didn't matter in the end, however because Germany's boot slammed down hard on his wrist, preventing him from firing again and snapping the bone in the process. Poland bit down on his tongue, squeezing his eyes shut, determined to neither scream nor release his weapon even as he felt the bone break. Germany increased the pressure, shifting more of his weight onto that leg. Poland gasped in pain but still kept his gun tightly gripped in his hand. Germany barked an order in his own language, and Poland pointedly ignored it. He had no use for what Germany wanted to say if it wasn't in a language that he cared to speak, after all. As punishment, his furious tormentor's other boot slammed into the blond's new gunshot wound, a sharp and horrible pain shooting out from Poland's shoulder. The Nation screamed this time, disappointing himself as he did so. His determination to keep his gun where it belonged, however, intensified.

"Cześć," Poland spat, flecks of blood from his lips flying upward and then spattering downward onto his face. He grinned eccentrically.

"Guten Tag," Germany didn't do him the polite justice of returning the smile. Poland snorted.

"Aren't you, like, way cheery today?" he growled sarcastically, squirming where he lay.

The Nation standing tall above him ignored the comment. "Causing trouble as usual, I see," he said, his tone somewhere between mocking and threatening. Poland was utterly unmoved by either attitude.

"Maybe I like causing trouble," he suggested smugly, lifting his foot very abruptly and kicking with all of the force that he could muster at Germany's closest knee. Surprised by the sudden movement, the don't-say-conquering Nation stumbled to the side, keeping his balance, though only barely. The misstep was enough; it offered sufficient time for Poland to leap to his feet, if not enough for him to aim and fire his gun. He didn't bother trying, instead ducking below the height he knew Germany would fire at and barreling straight into him head first, the force of his desperate attack knocking his enemy entirely off of his feet. Not wanting to stick around and chat, Poland bolted, bouncing into a turn as he ran to fire off a few shots, none of them making significant contact. The first grazed Germany's cheek and one scarcely missed his arm, but the other was nowhere near its target. Poland spun around again, charging away from the concrete battlefield and making a sharp left turn, opting to take the long way to his destination in the hopes of throwing Germany off of his trail.

He ran in his newly-selected direction, changing it whenever he began to get nervous, until his sides ached and his lungs cried for air and finally, when he stumbled to the ground, he crawled out of sight and allowed himself to rest. Hands shaking, he withdrew his trusty bandage roll from within his coat and got to work on his wound, hoping that his recent action hadn't made it too much worse but doubting the chances of such an outcome. Poland didn't have the time to clean his wound, nor did he have the means to. Swallowing nervously, ignoring his parched and bloody throat, the blond frowned. The injury may not have started out quite so fatal-looking, but it had certainly progressed to that level, and he immediately set to work on a tourniquet for fear of bleeding out if he didn't.

Stay safe, kid.

Well, that was going swimmingly, wasn't it?

Jeez, I think he, like, hit something, Poland thought stupidly as his arm bled at an extremely worrying speed. He began to feel dizzy as, working one-handed, he tore a piece of his already-tattered uniform jacket to place beneath the gauze, knowing it was at least softer than the bandages and also the only form of padding that he had. He balanced it on his arm a few inches away from the bullet wound, tied a quick half-knot, and looked frantically around for something he could use in the next step. He reached for a piece of debris, some sort of busted-up metal pole. It would have to do, the blond supposed, and he added it to the mismatched pile he was creating on his arm and knotted the gauze up over it. Now for the fun part, he thought bitterly, and began twisting the stick, wincing and letting out the occasional quiet cry as he did so, working until the tourniquet was tight. When he was satisfied with the stoppage of blood loss, he wrapped the ends of the gauze around the stick and his arm, tying them up to keep the dressing from loosening. There, he thought to himself, wishing very much that he could let himself cry. Instead, he swallowed his emotions and wobbled to his feet, thanking God for adrenaline and his Nation's abilities.

Exiting from his alleyway cover, he glanced quickly about the street before setting off again, unable to keep up his previous pace but unwilling to let himself move slowly. Poland had a meeting to get to, after all. In fact, it wasn't just a meeting, but probably the most important meeting he would ever attend, which was saying something. Nations went to a lot of meetings, and they held just as many. He hurried down the streets of his beloved home, not sure whether to be heartbroken or furious that he had to sneak and eventually settling for both. At long last, he reached the old, worn-down building in which he was to meet select members of his government. He smiled in spite of himself, was hit with a sudden surge of dizziness, and leaned over, gagging at the ground.

He retched several times before vomiting. While it was speckled with patches of blood, this had nothing to do with Poland's being a Nation. It was a lot of things: stress, terror, pain… He leaned up against the building's wall, his fingers clenched into a fist as he choked out a second mouthful of foul-smelling gunk, blearily stumbling despite simply trying to stand in place. Another round of spitting up and he felt a tiny bit better. Good enough. Pushing off of the sickly spattered structure, he gasped for air, used his uninjured arm to wipe his mouth, and then staggered towards the door of the building, wanting more than anything in the world to make things right and knowing that this was his best bet of doing so. He just hoped that he could stay conscious long enough to climb this hopeless Mount Everest of impossible tasks.

-o-

September 28, 1939
Warsaw, Poland

Prussia and Austria were nowhere to be found. No surprise there. They were probably off tearing up what was left of the city, fighting amongst themselves over some stupid and insignificant thing, because clearly they hadn't had enough of war yet. Germany sighed. Well, it was annoying, but it wasn't like he actually needed them to help him fight Poland. Not with Poland in the shape he was in by this point.

Of course, just because Poland wasn't in any shape to fight didn't mean he was too beat up to invoke his uncanny ability to annoy anyone and everyone he crossed paths with.

Germany had spent the better part of the afternoon trying to track Poland down. It wasn't easy, especially not after a month of relying on instinct to find him. After one too many arguments between Prussia and Austria, Germany had sent them off to search separately. And by separately, he clearly specified that he meant separate from both him and each other. Not that he thought that they had listened to that last part, if the sounds of arguing as they'd left had been any indication. But as long as they argued somewhere he couldn't hear, Germany didn't particularly care what they did. Right now, he was more concerned with Poland.

He'd finally located the other Nation, with the help of several of the soldiers occupying the city, in an old apartment building. Why Poland was in an apartment building, Germany didn't know or care. The point was, he'd been seen going into the building, and now Germany was just waiting for him to come out. He could have kicked down the door, but he didn't know where in the building Poland was, and didn't want to risk Poland slipping out a window or the door while he was searching another room. Easier to just wait outside and catch him as he left.

After half an hour of waiting in the alley next to the building, Germany heard a bird chirp about half an inch away from his ear. He jumped about a foot and turned to look at the source of this unexpected sound, coming face to face with Gilbird. The piece of paper that Gilbird had been holding in his beak fluttered to the ground, and Germany picked it up as the bird began flying in circles around his head, making him look rather like a cartoon character who'd just suffered an injury that would have caused a concussion had it been in a more realistic setting. Not that Germany realized this, since he didn't watch many cartoons. But the comparison remains just in case America happens to be lurking nearby, although what America would be doing in Poland is anyone's guess. America probably doesn't even know what a Poland is. But I digress.

As the bird continued to fly around Germany's head and make him look like a concussed cartoon character, Germany read Prussia's note. Hey, West! The messenger guy you sent said that you'd found Poland and wanted me to meet you at Poland's house. You want me to commandeer a car on the way since yours is still at the army base, or did you already get a car? Also, can I shoot/strangle/decapitate/throw-under-a-tank/blow up the freeloading noble?

Germany dug around in his pockets for a pen. After locating one, he turned the note over and wrote I already got a car, so I don't need you to commandeer one. Also, no you may not shoot, strangle, decapitate, throw-under-a-tank, blow up, or in any other way murder Austria. He gave the note to Gilbird, who took it in his beak and flew off, leaving Germany to pick up where he'd left off: waiting.

A few minutes later, the door to the building opened. Germany pulled out his gun and stepped into the open, into the path of a bloody, paranoid-looking, and suddenly very nervous Poland.

Poland muttered a phrase in his language that Germany didn't understand, due to his very limited knowledge of Polish, but which he could guess from the context was not about fluffy bunnies and rainbows. "So you found me," Poland said, eyes darting around as he looked for a way out. There was technically nothing impeding his path if he chose to run, but there was nowhere he could run to. About the only place nearby with any amount of cover would be the building, which was stuffed full of civilians who might get caught in the crossfire. "At the one second I didn't have my gun out," he added, gesturing toward the gun on his belt. He could go for the gun, but Germany would shoot him before he'd have time to use it. "Guess I, like, learned a lesson about being prepared…" He closed his eyes briefly as he realized that there was no way he was getting out of this, then looked up defiantly. "You do realize that if you drag me back to your house, I'm just going to make life hell for you, right?"

"Prussia and Austria warned me. But I'm pretty sure I can handle you."

Poland's lips twitched up into a little half-grin. "Your naïveté is adorable. I'd forgotten you're, like, barely more than a kid."

Germany's eye twitched. "You do realize I'm pointing a gun at you, right?"

"You're going to shoot me anyway. I may as well deserve it."

"And when we get to Berlin, I can make your life as hellish as I want," Germany added as if Poland hadn't said anything.

Poland just shrugged and looked Germany squarely in the eye as he said, "I'm pretty sure I can handle you," and went for his gun. Germany shot him, at near-point blank range, before he ever reached it, but that didn't matter. It was the principle of the thing. Poland had known he'd never get to the gun in time, but at least this way nobody could say he'd surrendered.

Poland fell to the ground. Dead, at least for now. Nations couldn't be permanently killed by a gunshot. He'd wake up in a week or so, and Germany would have to deal with him, but for now…blissful silence. Germany put his gun back in its holster, picked Poland up, and carried him to the car that Germany had parked just out of sight of the apartment building. He dumped Poland unceremoniously in the backseat, then got into the driver's seat and drove off.

Poland's house wasn't more than a few minutes away from the apartment building that Poland had been at, so it didn't take Germany long to reach it. When he got there, he saw the door off its hinges, presumably kicked down. It would appear that Prussia had already arrived. Germany parked the car in front of the house and got out, leaving Poland in the backseat. He wouldn't be waking up anytime soon, so there was no need to worry about him escaping. As Germany neared the house, a window was opened from the inside and a little yellow bird bearing a piece of paper in its mouth flew out.

Gilbird flew over to Germany, who took the note from him and shooed the little bird back toward the house. Upon reading the note, Germany developed an incredible urge to bash his head against something very hard and solid until he developed a concussion. The note consisted of a single question: What if I already have?

Germany entered the house through the doorless doorway and went off in search of Prussia. He found him in the kitchen, raiding the pantry. There was already an assortment of snack food on the counter, and Prussia exited the pantry holding a package of cookies. Ah, the spoils of war.

"Hey, did you get my note?" Prussia asked as he opened the cookie package.

Germany sighed. "If you already commandeered a car, it doesn't matter; we'll just bring it back on our way out. But since I didn't see a car anywhere nearby, I'm assuming you didn't commandeer one. If you already murdered Austria, he gets a free pass to do the same to you when he wakes up."

"Jerk," Prussia muttered. "By the way, can I take some of Poland's snacks with me?"

"Go ahead," Germany said, rolling his eyes.

By this point, Prussia's mouth was stuffed with cookie, so he just gave Germany a thumbs-up. Germany left in search of a suitcase to pack Poland's clothes in, leaving Prussia to pillage the kitchen. He eventually located a suitcase in the basement, then went to find Poland's bedroom. As he reached the second floor, he heard sounds of movement in one of the rooms, and found Austria already pulling clothes out of the closet and stacking them on the bed. Clearly, the usually-freeloading noble was ready to leave as soon as possible.

"Oh, good. You're not dead," Germany said from the doorway. Austria looked up and gave him an utterly confused look.

"Why would I be…oh. Prussia's notes."

"I said if he murdered you, you got to do the same to him when you woke up," Germany informed him, setting the suitcase on the bed and beginning to load clothes into it. "Oh, don't bother packing Poland any uniforms. He won't need them."

"Okay…I guess you're going to give him a new one to reflect—"

"He doesn't need a uniform. He's not a country anymore," Germany cut in, heading to the closet to find more non-uniform clothes.

"Oh. Um…right," Austria said, looking caught off guard by both the statement and the blunt, no-nonsense, following-orders tone that Germany had used to deliver it. Germany returned to the bed with an armful of clothes and began pulling out the military-related articles, tossing them to an unoccupied part of the bed. "So where is Poland?" Austria asked.

"In the car, bleeding on the backseat."

Austria considered this. "Can we stick Prussia in the backseat with him on the way home? Since he wanted to be in the back so badly on the way over here?"

"We'll see when we get there," Germany told him. He finished sorting the clothes and started packing the pile of approved clothing into the suitcase. When he finished, he checked over the contents and, satisfied, went to close the suitcase.

"Wait!" Prussia interrupted from the doorway. He snatched a stuffed toy, a unicorn, from the floor next to Poland's bed where it had either fallen or been deposited, and added it to the suitcase. Germany rolled his eyes, but didn't remove the pony before closing the suitcase. After finishing this, however, he gave Prussia a questioning look. "What?" Prussia said. "Maybe it'll keep him from complaining too much if he's got a toy."

Germany and Austria gave him a Look, but decided it was best to just shrug and go along with it.

"You two go fight over the passenger's seat," Germany said, handing the suitcase to Austria. "I'll catch up in a minute. And don't kill each other while I'm gone. We just finished one war; we don't need another one this soon." He watched as the two older Nations left the room, then went off in search of flammable substances. He quickly decided that the quickest and easiest solution would be the simple incendiary device he'd heard about from Spain: empty a glass bottle of its contents, fill with gasoline, stuff a gasoline soaked rag into the mouth of the bottle, ignite, and throw. Germany quickly assembled one of these handy devices, minus the igniting and throwing steps, then spread the rest of the gasoline and other flammable substances he could find around the house before leaving with a lighter and his glass bottle of imminent destruction. Austria and Prussia were waiting in the car. Austria appeared to have the advantage in the war for the passenger seat, since he was sitting in it and trying to fend off Prussia's attempts to take over his spot from the back. Germany ignored their antics and walked out to a safe distance from the house, lit the makeshift fuse on his bottle of gasoline, and threw it through the vacant doorway of the house. It smashed on the carpet just inside and the flames began to spread almost immediately, licking at the carpet and wallpaper.

Germany walked toward the car without looking back. Inside the car, Prussia and Austria watched the house burn, their fight having ceased the moment the bottle had shattered and ignited. As Germany walked toward the car without looking back to see the house go up in flames behind him, the sun began to set over the city of Warsaw.

At the beginning of the war, Prussia had lamented the lack of a dramatically appropriate sunrise to illuminate the moment as the twenty-nine dive-bombers headed off to war. He hadn't gotten his wish for a dramatic scene to begin the war, but now that he got a dramatic scene to end it, as the house was engulfed in fire, he couldn't help but realize that it was a once-in-a-lifetime moment, a simultaneously awesome and terrible picture, a beautiful and yet tragic scene…and he hadn't thought to bring a camera.

Germany started up the car and drove away, not once looking back.

They were nearly out of the city before Prussia and Austria found their voices again. Prussia was the first to speak.

"Um…uh…Germany? Why did you…I mean, I know you didn't want Poland to be able to go home again, and it was I guess symbolic of getting rid of the country, but…why did you, you know, burn the house down?"

Germany turned to look at his brother. Prussia was leaning back in his seat. His posture appeared pretty casual, but his expression betrayed his concern and worry despite his obvious attempts to hide it. Poland's limp body had been shoved into the seat next to Prussia, curled up in a near-fetal position, looking very small and, thanks to his many injuries, utterly pathetic. Out of the corner of his eye, Germany saw Austria leaning a bit away from him, clearly nervous. He turned back to the road and shook his head to clear his mind. It felt like coming out of a trance.

"I…" he trailed off, trying to find the words to express his answer and in the process realizing that he didn't know the answer. "I don't know. I just…" he shrugged. "Well it's…it keeps Poland from trying to run away since he doesn't have anywhere to go. And, like you said, it's symbolic. I just…I don't know, it just…made sense."

"Oh…um, okay..." Prussia trailed off. Germany looked back at him. Prussia still seemed concerned, but he didn't say anything further so Germany went back to driving. After a minute or so of silence, he glanced over into the passenger seat. Austria was watching him, looking as nervous as before, or maybe more so. When Germany turned to him, Austria quickly looked away.

"Look, I got a little carried away, but it's not that big a deal," Germany said. "You don't have to look at me like I'm about to go crazy. I'm sane, I swear."

Austria nodded, apparently in agreement, but still looked worried.

"Cheer up," Germany tried. "The war's over. We're headed home. Oh, and Austria, Hungary's coming over to drop off some of her things next week. She's going to be spending a lot of time at the house."

At this, Austria managed a smile.

"Yay, another freeloader," Prussia said from the backseat. "Now we'll have two freeloaders, plus Germany, who'd have to relax to be overly serious, plus Poland, who's just…" he trailed off, searching for a word before settling on "insane."

"And Prussia, who's arrogant and obnoxious and whose habit of picking fights is only going to make things worse," Austria added.

Germany sighed and rolled his eyes as he continued driving down the road. Prussia and Austria were right: things were going to get quite interesting at home. And that was nothing compared to what was going to happen once the war picked back up again and even more people ended up living with them.

World domination had its downsides.

-o-

September 28, 1939
London, England

This was one of those days when you shoved everything off of your desk onto a messy paper mountain on the floor and curled up in your chair with a pot of tea and a plate of cookies. Actual cookies, by the way, as in those soft, kind of crumbly things that you couldn't really dunk in your tea because they would get all soggy and fall apart a little bit, possibly bleeding melted chocolate all over your fingertips in the process, depending on how hot your tea was and the type of cookie. A gift from America, because apparently he thought England couldn't cook or something. Such a silly boy. You had to wonder where he'd gotten an idea like that…

England sighed, one arm wrapped around his knees and the other hand curled around a steaming cup of Earl Gray. The war in Poland was over, then. He could only imagine how the newly-conquered Nation was feeling at the moment. Fat lot of good he and France had done, too. England fumed silently in various directions. At Germany—how dare he attack poor Poland like that, completely disregarding the Treaty of Versailles! And Poland—surely he could've fought harder? Held out just a bit longer? And then you had France, with his pitiful excuse for an offensive that had been good for what? Nothing. No, wait, less than nothing. Just false hope that never brought any of the promised relief from the heartbreak.

And England himself, of course, with his useless promises and complaints that had been good for even less that France's token offensive.

Yeah, war sucked.

But you knew that. England knew that. Poland and France knew that. Everyone knew that except those with the black veil of patriotism draped across their faces. All too often, someone's pride in and love for their country would blind them to all of the pain around them, and what horror did register only translated into more of a reason for them to keep fighting. It had its advantages, sure, but still…

It was amazing what patriotism could make you forget.

England sighed, set down his untouched tea, and stood up, moving from pouting to pacing. He had never liked losing, even less so than most people. He was pretty good at avoiding that particular result, too, if he did say so himself. So the fact that Poland, to whom he'd given his word as a Nation and a gentleman, had been defeated, and so quickly…well, that stung. And the fact that England had not been able to help him didn't just sting, it hurt. There was that little voice in his head again, reminding him that he'd failed. England didn't like that voice, mostly because it was right.

The Battle of the Somme, and all for ten miles, no less. Orleans—beaten by a mere girl, to France's delight. Gallipoli, his fingers crushed beneath a boot until he relinquished his gun. Hastings and all that it had entailed. Cartagena de Indias, and England had always loved his navy so. And Yorktown—that whole bloody war, but Yorktown, where England had bawled on his knees in the mud at America's feet and the Nation who had once been his had turned his back and walked away.

"On your feet, England."

It was amazing what pride could make you remember.

-o-

September 28, 1939
Paris, France

France put the phone back on the hook with considerably less control than he would have exercised under normal circumstances. The resulting sound was less of the click it normally was, and was more of a loud thunk. France didn't seem to notice this as he stared off into the distance. Or rather, he would have stared off into the distance had there not been a wall between him and the distance. But France ignored this fact and stared into the wall as if it was the distance, which had a different and much less dramatic effect than staring into actual distance would have. As you may have gathered, however, France was a bit too distracted to notice.

Poland had been defeated. His army had just capitulated, and Poland himself was likely in the backseat of Germany's car, annoying the heck out of Germany, Prussia, and Austria, all of whom were probably planning the cleanest way to murder the defeated Nation in order to shut him up without getting blood all over the car. Poland, meanwhile, was probably cursing France and England for doing a whole lot of nothing for the past month. He wasn't the only one.

France was cursing France and England for doing a whole lot of nothing as well.

Sure, Poland was annoying, and sure, he was childish, and sure, he was a little clueless some of...scratch that, most of the time, but still, France had a treaty with him and he should have fulfilled his obligations. Instead, he'd valiantly fought to capture a few useless and undefended villages around the border, then pulled back before he could run into any actual danger. And then he'd held a meeting with England so they could brainstorm official sounding ways to justify sitting around and not helping, and the whole thing had ended with them deciding to just ignore the treaties because they didn't feel like doing anything just yet. Instead of helping Poland, they'd decided to wait until Germany came to them, and in the meantime, Germany could kick Poland around to his heart's content.

The phone back on its hook, thunked there or not, France decided that he desperately needed a drink. So off he went in search of wine, cursing himself for doing nothing all the way.

While walking and cursing himself, France found himself wondering what working for Germany and company would be like. They hadn't seemed completely insane, at least not the violent, vaguely sadistic kind of insanity that Nations occasionally lapsed into during certain, more violent points in their history. Russia had gone even more nuts during his revolution; England had an assortment of moments he sure wasn't proud of; Prussia, as the Teutonic Knights, had been pretty horrible to Lithuania; even France may have been a tiny bit out of character during his revolution and during the Napoleonic Wars. Nations just snapped sometimes, usually when their government was up to not-very-nice things, like killing a bunch of people or trying to conquer Europe.

But, in spite of their insane boss, Germany and company hadn't seemed any different the last time France had seen them. Germany may have held a grudge from the last war, but it hadn't escalated into full-blown insanity, so France figured that most Nations would probably be more or less fine under Germany's control. Unfortunately, Poland wasn't most Nations, and Germany didn't exactly have much tolerance for idiocy unless it came from a certain Italian. Or much tolerance for annoying weirdness unless it came from a certain Prussian. Germany hadn't snapped, at least not yet (frankly, France sort of expected at least some level of snapping to occur in the future), but that didn't mean that he couldn't get very, very annoyed. Poland was probably going to get himself strangled before the week was out, although admittedly, it would probably be his fault. Unless Poland was already dead…

Dead yet or not, Poland was a bit screwed, wasn't he?

Of course, this whole question of how absolutely screwed Poland was could have been avoided had France not decided that things would be better for everyone if he and England waited for Germany to come to them.

Ha. Waiting for Germany to come to them. They hadn't even tried all that hard to cover up the fact that they didn't want to fight yet, had they? But then again, they had just been too busy with the vitally important task of setting pins in a map in the shapes of their flags to worry about something as trivial as their ally's imminent defeat.

Ah, priorities.

Now in the kitchen, France located a wine glass and set it on the counter as he went off in search of a bottle of...well, right now he didn't particularly care what he drank; he just wanted alcohol to kick down the door of his brain and tell the little nagging mental voices that were making him feel guilty to sit down and shut up. This was certainly not France's usual approach to alcohol, but then again, things aren't supposed to function completely normally in a war when one's ally has just been defeated because one and one's other ally decided to sit back and do a whole lot of nothing.

France grabbed the first bottle he saw, briefly checked that it wasn't something expensive that he'd later regret wasting on shutting up his mental voices, and grabbed a corkscrew, opening the bottle and pouring part of its contents into the waiting wine glass. He jammed the cork back into the bottle and carried the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other as he headed back to his office, not even bothering to wait until he got there to start in on the wine he'd already poured.

When he arrived in his office, France set the bottle of wine on his desk, not noticing or caring that he was setting it on an already precariously balanced stack of paperwork that he probably should have been a whole lot more careful around. He put the glass on the empty bit of his desk that he should have been using for actual work, transferring the papers that had previously occupied that space onto his typewriter. It was a testament to his distraction that he didn't notice when the papers immediately slid off the typewriter and onto the floor. Instead, he put his head in his hands and glared at the desk as if it was the cause of all his problems, which it certainly was not, as the desk was not Germany, nor was it France's uselessness.

Poland had been taken over, in about a month. He'd put up a better fight than France had expected, especially considering that Germany had just been bombing the place left and right throughout the whole war. That, plus Poland had been outnumbered by Team Germany. Oh, and Russia, who'd decided to team up with Germany and invade Poland for reasons that didn't actually escape France, mostly because he'd never completely grasped them in the first place. Russia was insane, right? Maybe invading others was just his idea of fun. Who knew? Certainly not France.

Of course, there was another factor that had contributed to Poland's defeat, and France certainly couldn't forget this one: Poland's defense strategy had depended on France and England sending help. But alas, France and England hadn't wanted to help, so they just sat back and did nothing, not even considering the fact that this course of action royally screwed up Poland's strategy. It wasn't that Poland was completely incompetent. Had he known ahead of time that France and England would be useless as allies, he would have come up with a wildly different plan. But he hadn't known, and therefore his strategy had failed a bit. Admittedly, this failure hadn't been completely France and England's fault either; nobody had expected Russia to come barging in on the war like that. But still, the failure hadn't been solely Russia's fault either. France and England were to blame for a decent chunk of it, and they would take this blame and wallow in their guilt, thank you very much. Or at least France would, with the help of his wonderful friend alcohol. He didn't actually know what England was up to. But he had a feeling that England was doing something similar, although he might be wallowing with tea instead of alcohol. It was England after all. Either way, guilt wallowing was both necessary and justified, and if France and England were going to sit back and wait for Germany to come to them, they would do it in the manner of five-year-olds in time out, thank you very much. (Well, except for the alcohol bit. Five-year-olds didn't drink much alcohol these days.)

Hopefully, for the sake of France and England's countries, their bosses would expect something like this and would interfere in the self-imposed time outs and give the two of them a stern talking to and tell them to get back to work so that when Germany did come to them, they would be at least somewhat ready. After all, they had made a plan. And while their plan may have been somewhat cowardly in regard to the Poland bit of the war, they had at least intended to get Poland out of Germany's house. (France wasn't entirely sure how he and England were going to kick Russia out of the other part of Poland's territory; but that would be a problem to discuss at their next war council). They wouldn't be able to do anything for Poland if they got themselves taken over in the process of trying to rescue him, so getting taken over was something they would need to avoid.

France forced himself to stop glaring at his desk long enough to drink more wine and hopefully cloud his mind further. He went for the bottle again as he drained the glass. His hand hit the bottle, but rather than closing around it, he simply managed to knock it off the desk.

Well. That was one way to snap himself out of his self-loathing bubble. Now there was glass on the floor. And wine on the floor. Ooh, and there was a nice, long report about taxes that he'd spent all yesterday morning writing sitting in the middle of all of it and getting dyed a nice shade of red, the text blurring and becoming illegible.

What better way to spend the afternoon than redoing a piece of painfully dull work that he'd ruined while trying to become too intoxicated to remember to hate himself?

Ah, the joys of being a Nation.

-o-

September 28, 1939
?

China awoke to a world on fire. Everything hurt. He gasped in a mouthful of air that caught in his burning throat and died there, not making it anywhere near his lungs. Instead, he choked on the breath he didn't have until the gagging spiraled into a fit of desperate hacking that made his eyes water, continuing until he was dangerously lightheaded and his sole concern ceased to be why does it hurt? and turned abruptly to why can't I breathe? He gave the inhaling thing an involuntary second go once the coughing ceased, but no sooner had his chest, horribly aching sides and all, filled with sweet, blessed air than he lurched upwards and vomited. Foul-smelling, worse-tasting gunk splattered a work of art onto China's face and cascaded back down into his throat. He retched, loudly and frantically, choking on the acidic sludge and trying to avoid asphyxiating on the former contents of his stomach. Fortunately, someone gave him a hand with that last part, roughly rolling him onto his side so that he could puke onto the ground instead of into the air and, by extension, his mouth. Even that simple movement sent spasms of pain through his battered body.

China's body purged itself of more or less everything for several more agonizing minutes before he could lay back and breathe again, finally. When he at last managed to catch a lungful of air and actually keep it, he had an unpleasant realization about his itching, burning eyes.

They weren't working.

He tried blinking a few times, despite the uncomfortable sensation that came with each try. His brief attempt at widening his eyes had disastrous consequences—ow, ow. China closed the lids quickly, for all of the good that it did him. He coughed so hard that it shook his entire body, sending a sharp pain through his chest and abdomen, and then he set to work on curling into a ball. He hoped it would help with the pain, which was doubtful but worth a shot, not to mention that it was really cold wherever he was. A hospital, if he was lucky, He opened his mouth and squeaked out the unintelligible ghost of a word, trying to ask where he was and failing miserably. He fumed slightly—it was freezing in here—and tried instead to figure out what was going on.

He'd been fighting Japan, right? Of course he had been, what sort of a question was that? They were fighting over…Changsha? Was it Changsha? Ugh, China's memory was a bit fuzzy. Maybe he'd died; that would explain at least some of the symptoms. China shivered, drawing in a shaking breath. Whatever was wrong with him had probably killed him, or it was far along its way to doing so. The nasty part about being dead was that your body just stopped. Normally, a Nation's body fixed them up pretty quickly, but if something managed to kill them, their healing factor couldn't kick back in until they woke up again. Unless there was brain damage, anyway, but then it was more like they stopped being dead and started being comatose, so that didn't really count. The point was, they could wake up anywhere from a few hours to a few weeks or more later with a gaping hole in their body. That explained at least some of the pain in China's stomach. He couldn't move his hand to check, but he was pretty sure that he'd managed to make it start bleeding again. That could happen too.

Great. Just great.

China lay back into his resting place. If it was a hospital bed, he was by far too sore to appreciate it. Still, a hospital was better than a prison camp or an abandoned field of corpses. Oh… Yes, China was definitely hoping for "hospital". Unfortunately, he couldn't speak to ask for a conformation of that guess, much less see to check with his own eyes. Plus, there was a deafening ringing in his ears, making a good ninety percent of his attempts at figuring anything out dead in the water. He was pretty sure that it didn't match up with the rest of his symptoms, though. Maybe he was concussed or something. As for the other issues…the vomiting, the abdominal pain, the coughing, the blindness…yuck. China shivered again, choked on another breath, and then forced himself to twitch his fingers just enough to brush his arm. If those were blisters he was feeling, he was screwed. He jerked his fingers up and wrapped them around his wrist, groaning miserably as he stroked the skin, making sure to do it as gently as possible. Yes, they were indeed blisters. Painful, somewhat itchy blisters.

For the love of all things good and merciful and cute, Japan had gassed him, hadn't he?

China could definitely make a strong case for a mustard gas attack, now that he thought about it. If he could see, he was sure the blisters covering his body would be an ugly, disgusting yellow. Now wonder everything was going wrong with his body. Mustard gas killed the cells, destroyed the tissue, ruined the membranes. It attacked the skin and parts of the nose and throat. Blister agents were horrible and China wanted nothing more than to slip back into the blissful, painless abyss of death. Unconsciousness. Anything but this.

As if on cue, his nose began to bleed. Ugh. China thought it was blood, anyway. For all he knew, his nose was dripping brain matter down his face. He spit out a few drops that had trickled between his lips and wondered if he could get back to sleep despite his current state of agony. Sleep, he decided, was preferable to death, because he needed to heal. He had a battle to get back too, after all. The pain was making him wish he could die, of course, but that paled to nothingness in comparison to the importance of doing his job and getting back to the war. China hated being cooped up in his office when there was real work to do and battles to be fought, so being stuck in (what he presumed was) a hospital was ten times worse.

China gagged suddenly, a glob of vomit sliding out of the side of his mouth, some of it splattering to the floor and the rest lingering on his face and leaving a trail of sludge as it slid down his chin. There were treatments for mustard gas victims, China grumped to himself. Something for the skin, something for the eyes. It didn't fix the problem, but it helped, or so he'd heard. They'd probably just quarantined him, though, but if he'd looked dead… Perhaps his government had stepped in? Doubtful. China concluded that he hadn't been dead, just really close, plus wounded and most likely concussed. He must've been a pretty severe case, but then again, that made sense, as his people had been hit, too. China was glad that they'd saved what treatment they had for those who it could really help, then. He'd heal up soon enough, medicine or no.

The important thing was that he got well enough to get back to the battle. In China's mind, that translated to seeing, walking, and lacking a hole in the stomach. It would be no worse to puke and cough and itch on the battlefield than in a hospital, after all. China began to wonder if his Nation instincts could account for the blindness (cough, choke, wheeze, gasp), although he doubted it. He figured, though, that perhaps if it came down to it, he could just ask the nearest person where to aim and go from there, although that was far less than ideal. He'd probably blow his finger off trying to pull the trigger. …Well, there would be no winging it while still blind, then, and the bullet wound would need to be at least mostly healed. China pouted. Hospitals were for mortals and for people whose very essence wasn't at war. China was neither, and being out of the fight for non-country reasons made him feel like he was cheating. If there was a government problem or a meeting he needed to be at, then that would be almost fine, but being injured made him feel like a normally studious teenager faking sick to get out of a test they hadn't prepared for.

Yes, the sooner he healed up, the better.

The ball that was China curled up a bit tighter. He winced at the effort required to move his limbs a few inches. This position wasn't doing anything to reduce the pain like he'd hoped, but it was making him just a bit warmer, and that was good enough for him. He probably had a fever, too, of all things. He felt like he had one. Ick. He would've preferred a bullet wound to a fever, although he'd been lucky enough to get both in the last battle. Gunshots and burns he could deal with; that was normal for a Nation. But generic stuff like fevers and nausea—they were the absolute worst.

China coughed viciously a few more times before he thankfully slid out of consciousness into the oblivion of sleep once more.


Authors' Note

Historical Stuff:

- On September 28, 1939, Poland's forces in Warsaw surrendered. Note that this was just Warsaw, not the entire country; fighting continued in Poland until October 6. Another important thing to note is that Poland never actually surrendered (which is why Germany had to chase him around the city and shoot him in the head in order to drag him back to Berlin.)

- Now for the fun stuff: Poland's resistance movement. The resistance movement in Poland wasn't just a resistance movement; it was an entire underground government, called the Polish Underground State. Obviously, this included the army, but it also included things like underground courts, police, and schools. I really can't do it justice here. If you want to know more, I'd recomend the book The Polish Underground State: A Guide to the Underground, 1939-1945 by Stefan Korbonski. You can definitely expect to see more of the Polish Underground State, because Poland sure doesn't intend to stop fighting just because he got dragged off to Germany's house.

- China waking up in the hospital: see, I told you mustard gas was nasty. It causes all kinds of unpleasant effects: blindness, painful blisters, respiratory damage...you know, the horribleness of mustard gas is another topic that I really can't do justice in these historical notes. (I haven't got a book to recomend this time, but there's plenty of information online if you're morbidly curious...) Mustard gas is not a pleasant thing. There's a reason you're not supposed to use it. Let's all send China hugs and "get well soon" cards and cute stuffed animals.

Authory Stuff:

Vilnius's Note: Hello, everyone! I finally got to gush about the Polish Underground State in the historical notes. Expect to see a whole lot on the topic, because we both seriously love it. Anyway, we're pretty much done with the invasion of Poland (finally!) and soon we'll get to move on to topics that we can actually find information about! Joy to the world! (Fun fact: if you ever want to send Warsaw into a rage, start singing Joy to the World. Especially the "repeat the sounding joy" part. Her reaction is hilarious!) Anyway, see you next week!

Warsaw's Note: Netflix is a bad thing for writers to have. So are plot bunnies. So is the book Good Omens. Boo, so little got done this week. Ah, well. In other news, Warsaw loves you all. Especially the reviewers, insert-puppy-dog-eyes-here? Warsaw also loves to write unpleasant things, like gore and vomit so, er...watch out? Yes...cheers!

Reviews make us do a strange yet somewhat endearing dance of joy. So, please, if you're reading this...review. We like doing the dance.

(Vilnius's Second Note: There is no "us". I don't do strange dances. I don't dance at all. (I do get excited and hug stuffed animals, though...)

Also, behold our infinite thanks to those of you who have reviewed. We love you! We really do.