Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himaruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.

Summary: Empires were once the most powerful Fighters in the universe, but they all died or disappeared fifty years ago. Didn't they?

Title: Empire

Chapter Four: Derelict

Word Count: 7,620

Page Count: 12

[Total Word Count: 26,841]

[Total Page Count: 41]

Anime: Hetalia
Pairing(s) in this chapter: US/UK/US, Spain/Romano/Spain, America/England, France/England/France

Warning: Language, BL

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)
Date: Friday, October 29, 2010

Miscellaneous notes: …Oh. You guys know that no one needs (and thus, wears) glasses in this fic, right? Because it's sometime far in the future, and they just fix whatever deficiencies someone has when they're young, since it's really cheap. [ So, no glasses for America, Canada, Austria, Sweden, Estonia, Thailand or Monaco. (Sorry, but there's really no way around this, what with how advanced their society is by this point…) ]

FYI, Gallia always speaks French to Britain when they're alone. If it's from Britain's POV you'll know what he's saying (since Britain knows French)—if not, you won't (other than a few 'commonly-seen-in-this-fandom' French words you should all know by now, of course). x3

Pairings will always be listed under the names of the countries you know from canon Hetalia, so as to not make things more confusing. ._. [ Even though the 'France/England/France' in this chapter is technically 'Gallia/Britain/Gallia'… erm, yeah. And that the 'America/England' is sort of 'America/Britain' (…but not really, since America still loves England, not Britain, and all that jazz) at this point, but… for the sake of everyone's sanity (including mine) I'm not going to get that specific. x.o;; ]

TO REITERATE: FOR THE PAIRINGS LISTED IN THE BEGINNING OF EACH CHAPTER, WE'RE GOING WITH BODIES (Ex: England, Canada), NOT MINDS (Ex: Britain, Canada). Even though there's technically a distinction… Ugh, there are so many split personalities due to the Empires (because, in this fic, England≠Britain [but sorta does, since they share the same body], and Gallia≠France [ " " ], and so on…)—the nomenclature is killing me! x/x~

Attention: Pics are up on my deviantART concerning the layout of the United Military main/mothership and also what the uniforms ('bodysuits') look like. Check my profile for the links (please do, it's really just easier than doing that thing with the spaces all the time… x.o;;).

Sorry for the long author's note, seriously. x.x Maelstrom, I'd respond more to your review, but I really want to give this chapter one last once-over before I post it, so… x/x T-Thank you for taking the time, I love the long reviews~ (Oh! And the enemies in this fic are called the 'Soviets' because I didn't think that little oneshot would balloon into a real fic or anything, and... er... when I was writing what is now the first chapter, 'Soviets' was the first bad-connotation word to pop into my head, so I just went with it. xD ;;; E-Ehe. x.x Nothing related to Communism, really, just my American brain being prejudiced against the word, is all~)

Sorry for any mistakes I might have missed, but I'll get them all eventually! (It's 7:38 AM and I've been up all night finishing this chapter for you guys, so you have a new thing to read to start off Halloween weekend~! Oh, I'm so exhausted. x.o;; )

[Now it's 8:26 AM. POSTING NOW, THEN BED. x/x;;; Gah… / Now 8:46 AM and it's officially posted! :3~ / ]

: : : : : : :

"…America." The fingers threaded through his hair tugged a little and he mumbled something, snuggling closer and breathing a tickling shade of breath over the neck beneath him.

"Hnnr… ?" He heard a soft chuckle in the back of England's throat, and the fingers returned to petting. Satisfied, America shifted closer, arms loosely snug from where they'd been stubbornly hugging the older man throughout the night. America had only been back for a little over a year, and had gladly celebrated his twenty-second birthday with all of their friends only last night. His arms squeezed England a little, affectionately. It had taken just that long for England to grow comfortable with him, and last night they had, for the first time—

"You should know…" England's words broke the silence, drawing him back, and America forced himself to focus. England's voice was too quiet. "I may have to leave, one day." In an instant America was up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and squinting as the crust annoyed him. He quickly rubbed at his eyes, then gawked down at England with a wide stare. Green eyes observed him, as detached and reserved as they could ever be. America's hands hesitantly wandered up.

"W-What?" His voice creaked from sleep, shaking fingers not quite daring to cup the sides of England's face. England watched him for a moment more, before his own hands came up, pressing against his knuckles and bringing America's palms to rest on his cheeks. That aloof look softened, grew molten and alive again, under America's somewhat distressed ogling.

"…No. Nevermind." England seemed to be talking to himself, now, subconsciously glancing off to the side as his vision hazed over, showing he was losing himself in thought. "No, America, I'm sorry. I won't leave you, love. There's nothing for you to worry over. I've just had too much time to think to myself, is all." England tried an airy laugh, then, which nonetheless sounded a bit forced. Calmed for the moment (but still a bit confused), America started down at him for a long moment before smoothing a hand over one of England's cheeks and kissing the exposed skin. He didn't know what to say. He should take what England said as truth, shouldn't he? But that England had even said it… England wouldn't say something like that without reason. He was too serious sometimes—especially when he had that look lingering behind his eyes, and that tone which always made every word he spoke sound heavy and deliberate.

"England? Is everything okay?" He felt England chuckle beneath him, and skinnier arms than America's own weaseled their way around his neck, pulling America's mouth to his with a soft, sultry murmur.

"Of course, dear. Nothing to worry about. Just remembering my own mortality, is all~" America breathed a sigh of relief (that that was all it was!), and pulled back only enough to return the soft smile England was granting him with a bright grin of his own.

"Aw, that~? Well, don't feel down, England! Whenever we go, we'll go together!"

"Mm." England nodded, his eyes growing a touch amused as he tugged America back down by way of those arms encircling his neck. "Sounds like a plan, but until then…~" With a surprised squeak, America found himself blinking up at a smirking England, the older man's hands starting to wander down, palming over America's bare chest and further.

"A-Ah!" America gasped sharply as he was touched, eyes snapping shut and his head arching into the pillow as deft fingers wrapped around him, rubbing tantalizingly and slowly beginning to build the warmth in his lower gut towards arousal. He felt England lean down, then, murmuring seductively against his ear.

"We'll just have to make the best of it, won't we, lad?"

: : :

It was a shame America's eyes were shut. Because of that, he couldn't see the sadness in that green gaze watching him, and so could never insist on knowing what was really wrong. But there wouldn't be another chance, anyway—for England never, never said anything related to that one little slip he made (the morning after America's twenty-second birthday), ever again. And so America never knew, as England kept on and smiled and made love to him year after year, always silently praying every morning that this would not be the day he would be forced to sacrifice America's (and his own) happiness for the greater good.

But then, America was strong, unlike him. There was a good chance the boy would still be happy, even if… even if that should happen. Because England's body would not be dead, so America should have no reason to die, yes? But it was likely that he would be as good as dead… No, America could never know. England chastised himself for being so weak in almost allowing one moment to overshadow a (at that point) twenty-six-year-old secret. America could never know that he would be 'as good as dead', for then America might seek to die, as he had so promised ("Whenever we go, we'll go together!"). No, America had to believe that England could come back, so he would continue to live. A futile hope it might be, but at least America would be alive. It would be enough for England. It had to be.

England would dare not bank on the slim possibility that he could return, after activating EMPIRE0016. His superiors had given him no indication that this could be true—and, at any rate, it was always better to prepare for the worst. He had resigned himself to this, long ago, and would continue to live with grim resolution in his heart of hearts. Should that day come, England would hold his head high and do what needed to be done, no matter how painful and hard it was. His feelings alone could not be allowed to interfere with the duty which had claimed him since birth. It would be the way it had to be, and there was no changing it.

Not for anything—not for anyone.

: : :

Spain rushed along the hallway, nervously looking up at the room numbers he passed. Romano was always assigned to the same room—due to scheduling and free space—and so he quickly found it, mind nagging at him with the urgency of the situation while he soundly replayed the old mantra in his head.

Romano cannot know. I have to tell him to stay away from me. He cannot know what—

He hesitated, thoughts stilling as he paused in front of the door. Spain placed a hand on it. He didn't have the proper jurisdiction, he couldn't enter, so Spain didn't bother trying to put his palm on the scanner just to the left of the door. He bowed his head, hands sliding to the pockets of his dark red bodysuit as he leaned against the wall opposite the entrance, thoughts taking on a melancholy tone.

We don't know how long it will be until France is gone. It will be soon. But will we still have time.

Maybe until tomorrow?

Oh, how he hoped they would have until tomorrow. Perhaps if they went straight to his apartment, didn't answer the door (in case it was Empire-France knocking), and spent the whole night there… A small smile stole over his face as Spain thought on it. Yes, it would be good, wouldn't it? To have one last, beautiful night with Romano—he could make a special night of it, mood lighting and all, watch their favorite movie from the old archives, sing with his guitar until Romano couldn't take it anymore and he—

"Oi, Spain?" He blinked as he recognized that gruff tone, eyes gradually focusing on the annoyed face in front of him as the sliding door crawled shut behind Romano. Upon seeing that face, Spain utterly forgot everything he'd been thinking about, face exploding into a bright smile as he swooped forward with a laugh and gathered Romano up into his arms, kissing every inch of his face and giggling happily when the Italian gave out a garbled yell, struggling to get away. "H-H-Hey! What's wrong with you, bastard—!"

"Ahhh, Romano, I am kidnapping you~!" He sang this, gleefully, spinning Romano around in the hall before using the momentum to scoop him up in his arms, bridal-style. "We will spend the whole night together, with no interruptions!" Spain beamed at him as a hot red flush darted out over Romano's face (a stark contrast to the forest green regulation Fighter bodysuit he wore), and Romano started to swat at him but Spain only laughed again, practically skipping back down the hallway towards the entrance.

"W-What are you talking about, idiot? I-I've got more training in an hour, and Veneziano already made plans to—"

"Then they are canceled, my dear little tomato!" Spain chirped, sniggering again in pure happy joy as Romano's face heated up even more darkly and he snarled, baring teeth and flailing a bit, intending to maim!

"D-D-Don't call me that outside of the apartment, you—" But he was cut off with a smooth kiss, the surprise catching him off-guard and making him eventually melt into Spain's embrace so that when Spain drew back as they reached the doors, Romano was little more than a dazed, floaty-feeling weight in his arms. Steps still light and vibrant, Spain hummed happily to himself as he headed for the Mechanics' living section, and his lone apartment.

Romano mumbled something about Spain being ridiculous, to himself, burrowing his warmed face into Spain's shoulder to hide it from any staring passerby, arms shyly crawling up to loop around his neck. Not that there were many observers, though—Spain was enough of an idiot that this was a semi-common occurrence, and most of the people by now had gotten used to the sight of a red-clad Mechanic cheerfully carrying a green-clad Fighter affectionately in his arms through the narrow halls.

Spain was always an idiot, like this—but something felt strange, for some reason. Romano squeezed Spain's neck subconsciously, and was rewarded with a soft chortle and a press of lips to the crest of his hair as they continued to walk on. Romano's eyes trailed up in thought, even though he couldn't see anything but darkness, brows furrowing slightly. Spain only got this suddenly energetic (and declared he was 'kidnapping' Romano) when something bad was going to happen. Mechanics usually stayed around here, but sometimes they were sent out, if there was a battle coming up, or a ship or a Fighter malfunctioned outside of the base.

Was Spain going away? Was there going to be another battle, soon? Romano couldn't tell, so he just pushed the worrying thoughts stubbornly to the back of his mind and decided he would enjoy this night, and do his best not to be too irritable. If it was something serious, it would be stupid to waste the time they had, now. It might be the last night they would have, together, for quite a few days (if not a week or even a month), depending on the urgency of Spain's new assignment.

: : :

"Didn't that boy look familiar to you?" Gallia murmured in French in his ear, fingers catching the holder on his zipper and sliding it downward with the sound of metal rapidly disengaging from interlinked metal. Britain scoffed, leaning back against him, tilting his head back as the French-speaker's hands slid greedily in over the thin, worn fabric of his white tank top, both ducking beneath the hem and one slowly traveling upwards.

"What are you on about? He didn't—ah—" Britain heard a chuckle behind him and growled, bucking his hips into the sly hand pressing down against the slight bulge in the front of his black boxers.

"My, my, so quick to forget, aren't you, Ar—" Tensing up, Britain quickly elbowed Gallia in his stomach and heard a pained grunt—one he unintentionally mimicked only a moment later, as the gentle hand tightened unpleasantly in punishment over his clothed dick.

"D-Don't call me that!" He hissed, still half in pain, glancing over his shoulder meanly at the bowed head of the man before him. When Gallia at last lifted his face, Britain's eyes went wide at what he saw.

Beaming up at him, without a care in the world, wide, clear blue eyes laughing from behind a pair of smudged and dirty and scratched spectacles. Little pudgy hands coming up to him, grabbing his own and then they were spinning together in warm sunlight—around and around and—

"Did you forget me already, big brother?" Al—Gallia pouted up at him. These were the times when Britain really hated the man's ability. The Frenchman's mature stubble and angular, aristocratic features were gone, replaced by rosy cheeks and smooth, youthful skin. The longer, wavier hair was gone, as well—instead it was short and flippy, with one tell-tale bit sticking stubbornly up. His eyes were still blue, but shaded subtly different—reflecting not sly perversion, but earnest innocence. But the damning effect was the glasses.

Those glasses, with brown square frames bordering the bottom but not the top (so that the glasses, themselves, were only visible as lines across his cheekbones and didn't appear to run over his actual eyes). Those glasses, which he himself had helped pick out for Al… f-for his younger brother, back in those days before the mass migration from Earth. Those glasses—albeit then cracked and broken—which had been the only thing remaining in the ransacked house he'd once called a home, when he'd managed to escape from the clutches of those who would, in time, come to call themselves the United Military.

: : :

Canada hurried along the halls—a barely-noticeable dash of grey—muttering to himself about how it had been so unkind of France, England and America to leave him there—whenever any of them returned from a mission, they always went to the Terry to eat, together! They couldn't have just forgotten him again, could they? He sighed to himself (and the probability that that was, indeed, the case [again]), stopping at last at Section B1 (the living quarters being a full three floors down from the hangar where they'd arrived). Canada peered up at the room numbers out of habit, veering off in the direction of France's apartment. It wasn't so far from his own, really. Everyone lived on the third floor, and country representatives lived in the third floor's B1 Block (utilizing rooms 0000-0400), while B1 Block's 0401-1000 rooms were reserved for the officers of the United Military. The other section of living quarters on the third floor (across the way, on the other side of the Communal Area and Elevators and Emergency Escape Hatches between the two Blocks) was called B2 Block, and housed rooms 1001-3000, for ordinary soldiers. Some lived alone, some with room mates, all depending on which rooms were available.

He hadn't gone more than five steps when the sound of hard running met his ears. Canada blinked up just in time to get bowled over by America, a surprised yelp escaping him as he grasped onto the other man's arms to avoid falling—to little avail. They toppled like a heap of raw metal from fusion. Canada groaned, putting a hand to his head and shifting a little. He blinked again, as he heard sniffling, and looked down. America had his face buried in Canada's chest, fists clutching to the fabric of his grey Navigator bodysuit as he hiccupped. The Canadian sighed to himself, getting comfortable on the floor (being pinned there by the very uncomfortable weight of the larger man atop him—America had a big frame and lots of muscle, not someone you wanted to be under in a dogpile!) and patting America's back for a few moments until he stopped sniffling. Canada guessed that England had just yelled at him again, he'd been acting off ever since they came back and—

"T-Thanks—" He blinked, and smiled kindly down at the tearful blue eyes bearing up on him. Canada ruffled his hair, trying to laugh a little despite his soft voice.

"Y-You're all right now, eh? Can I get up?" Those blue eyes blinked wide and America quickly scrambled off him, leaning against one side of the narrow hall. Canada pushed himself up to sit against the opposite side, subtly observing America without directly looking at him. The Fighter was staring at the ground, broad shoulders slumped in what looked like utter despair. Canada bit his lip softly, in thought. Well, whatever it was, they shouldn't discuss it here… He began to stand up, reaching out a hand with a tentative smile, sensitive to his brother's mood. "Y-You want to go—?" America instantly looked up at him, expression cracking wide in a grin as he hurried to his feet, cutting him off mid-sentence. Canada almost winced at how easily that mask fell over his face.

"S-Something to eat? Yeah, that'd hit the spot—you're the best, Canada!" Laughing boisterously, America slung an arm over his shoulder and they began to wander back towards the Cafeteria—affectionately nicknamed 'the Terry.' Canada couldn't help but notice out of the corner of his eye (America had pulled him in close, after all) that the other blond's face still looked a little splotchy-(crying-)red, though…

He would ask him about it during the meal.

(During the meal, because that would be the only time he'd be able to get a full sentence out without America interrupting him—and even then, it would be hard. America easily talked with his mouth full, after all…)

: : :

"—rre? Angleterre!" Britain was jerked out of his memories as Gallia shook him, and he took a moment to focus… No, the image was gone. Gallia looked like Fr—Gallia, again. Somehow—without his noticing—Britain had been turned around so his back was against the door, with each of Gallia's hands on his shoulders, those canary-blue eyes worriedly staring into his own. Britain just stared at him for a moment, before looking off and pushing him away with his forearm, heading for the lone couch in the middle of the living room. His tone was low—not defeated, just weighed down with too much old sorrow to be loud.

"Don't play with me like that, Gallia." He'd never really gotten over losing his family. Gallia knew that. He knew it because he'd been the same. They were all that remained of their world—of the green grasses and blue skies. They were all that remained of the world before the nuclear Armageddon. Britain could close his eyes and remember. He could remember the cold bite of the English Channel, the salty sea air around the coasts, the wet sand between his toes, the old castles of England and Wales and Ireland and Scotland—the green, foggy moors and Stonehenge, which they had visited when he and his brother were still small. It was these images and senses that assaulted him as he sat in a heavy heap on the bland, mechanical-rubber couch. He knew how it worked. Tiny bolts of electricity ran under the covering sheet, and if they were turned off then the couch would collapse into nothing, leaving free space. But most of the time it was left on. That much, he understood, at least. That much, had been around at least fifty years ago, when he'd last emerged. Britain leaned forward, elbows propping on his thighs as he rubbed at his face with his palms—uncaring of the disheveled nature of his clothing, the front opened all the way down to his crotch, boxers askew beneath it. Why had Gallia reminded him of his isolated existence, by mirroring his dead brother's face?

In another moment he felt lips on his temple and a hand tugging at his wrist. Britain peered up, gaze angry but expression a bit helpless. Gallia smiled his apology, pulling that hand up to kiss the back of it with a warm murmur.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to upset you." To that, Britain snorted, and allowed himself to be pulled up and—presumably—towards the bedroom.

"Of course you didn't. And you're not just horny because it's been half a century since we last saw each other." Gallia pouted back at him and Britain had to smirk, fingers curling around to snag Gallia's wrist while the Frenchman yet had his own—a mockery of hand-holding.

"Ah, so cruel, Angleterre~! What did I do to deserve such harsh words?" He snorted.

"You chose to exist." A more pronounced pout followed that comment, and this time Britain grinned meanly at him—showing teeth—in response. Gallia swept his free hand through the air, dramatically, continuing to saunter onward.

"Oh, you say it like that, but I know you missed me~!" All-too-soon that pout was usurped by a sly look, one that had Britain blinking in surprise as he was jerked into the bedroom and pinned against the wall, half-lidded blue eyes suddenly much closer and more alluring than he remembered. He grunted, trying to shove Gallia off and looking away, soundly ignoring any small bit of red hovering over his face.

"S-Stupid tosser, what gives you that idea? God knows you're nothing better than an infuriating—"

"You kissed me, non~?" Gallia purred it at him, mouth fastening to his neck and Britain had to take in a quick gasp, neck arching back a little as hot moisture pooled from the spot where those French lips sucked at him. "If you did not want to see me, cher Angleterre, you would not have freed me from my sleeping shell." There was little he could do to argue with that, and in a quick decision Britain shifted, hands rising to undo the snaps at the top of Gallia's grey Navigator bodysuit. His fingers then fell on the hidden zipper, pulling it down as he leaned forward, nipping at the Frenchman's ear.

"Then put up or shut up, you fucking frog, I haven't got all day." A small 'honhon' echoed against his skin and then Gallia was trailing his lips up, ghosting a response over Britain's mouth as amused and darkening blue stabbed into him, curling tight electricity in his gut.

"Oh, I do quite intend to be a 'fucking frog', as you so eloquently put it, mon petit Ar—"

Britain cut him off with a kiss. He didn't want to hear that name.

Not now.

(…Not ever again.)

: : :

"Aiyah! Don't run in here, aru, it's dangerous!" China barked out at Prussia as he nearly fell through the doorway leading to the infirmary section of the ship as it slid open, eyes wild and breathing hard. The German practically yelled in response, throwing up his hands in frustration.

"No time for that! Where's Austria?" Upon hearing the loud tone, China glanced sharply at the other Doctor's curious eyes, communicating with a look to continue the blood tests without him. Belgium nodded silently, waving to Hong Kong down the hall that she would need a bit of assistance. China briefly let his eyes rest on the apprentice nurse as the pair walked away to the testing room before settling his gaze belligerently on Prussia and advancing. Prussia blinked, backing up a step—and then a few more, so soon he was entirely outside of the room, China facing him in the hall with a frown. The door slid shut behind him, and his hands ducked into their customized white sleeves (long and loose, like the ones from Old China's ancient paintings).

"He just went to take a break, aru. What do you want with Austria?" Prussia huffed, shoving his hands in his grungy-and-well-worn red Mechanic bodysuit's front pockets and glaring right back.

"Why's it any of your business, eh? When will he be—" A mildly aristocratic voice echoed out from behind him (albeit a little ways away, yet), then.

"Prussia?" He spun around, grinning and showing all his teeth as he grabbed the Austrian by the elbow and hauled him down the hall and away from China's suspicious ears. Prussia gave him a glare over his shoulder and China huffed, turning to go back into the infirmary. Austria glared at Prussia, delicately moving to take his hand off his arm as the door to the sick bay slid shut yet again. "Would you mind releasing me? Given the state of your attire you may not care for a few smudges, but in the profession I work even the slightest compromising of the sterile environment can be—"

"16's awake. 12 knows." Austria stared at him for a moment, utterly flummoxed. Then Austria swallowed, quietly, looking away as he relaxed, no longer trying to pull out of the hand that was wrinkling the elbow of his pristine white Doctor's bodysuit.

"T-Then 12 is… ?"

"I don't know. But soon." Austria nodded, expression troubled for a moment. Dark eyes glanced up.

"Have you told Hungary yet?" Prussia shook his head, cocking a crooked smile.

"Nah, I don't know her schedule well enough, but I figured you'd be here, so—" He trailed off as Austria nodded, drawing back and straightening. His hands were clasping each of his own elbows in front of him. They were silent, for a moment.

"So, then… you will be—?" Prussia laughed roughly, rubbing a hand on the back of his head and looking off with a grin.

"Y-Yeah, looks like, don't it! As soon as 12 finds 13, then they'll come find me and then I'll get Hungary and she'll get you, s-so…" Prussia trailed off, awkwardly, again. When a few stony moments passed, he turned to go—and made it a few steps, before Austria spoke up behind him.

"If you would… like to come to dinner with us, Hungary and I have plans in about an hour." Prussia blinked, then slowly glanced over his shoulder in awe. Austria wasn't quite looking at him, expression schooled into careful austerity. A slow, wide grin split his face, then, and he ran up to whack Austria (who winced) on the back of his shoulder good-heartedly, laugh like the chips of an ancient buzz-saw in the otherwise-silent hall.

"H-Hell yeah! I mean, not that I haven't got anything better to do, but since you've invited me and all I wouldn't dare deprive you of my amazing presence since it's so obvious you'd be lacking without it, hahaha!" Austria wrinkled his nose, eying him for a moment before nodding and gracefully ducking out from under his hand, even going so far as to pluck the wrist off himself as though it were filthy (which was true, to an extent—Prussia did work as a Mechanic, after all).

"Yes, well. Give me an hour, then. We should…" Here Austria paused, glancing towards him quietly. "—catch up, shouldn't we?" Prussia grinned so hard it hurt, but otherwise restrained himself and nodded eagerly. It had been a long time since Austria had said anything like this.

Well, when you realize you're possibly on the brink of the end of your existence, Prussia guessed that changed a few priorities.

"Yeah! Great idea! We'll make a party of it! Oh!" His eyes went wide, as though just remembering something, and he swore loudly, paying no mind to Austria's horrified look at his language. "Damn! In an hour, right? I just remembered, I've got to go see someone!" Austria blinked at him, then nodded. Austria understood what he meant—and it figured, right? That they'd make up just as they were going to disappear. Prussia snorted to himself, but plastered on another grin just for the sake of it. It wouldn't get to him. "The Terry on this floor, right? In an hour? I got it, see you at E Entrance, then!"

: : :

On the other side of the wall, his ability (to hear things excellently, despite obstacles—a slightly loud conversation just on the other side of the wall was child's play) had China's eyes wide and his breaths sharp and disbelieving.

Britain is awake?

Oh, this was bad. This was very bad. Who else knew? How had Prussia and Austria figured out their order of activation? Did anyone else know? Well, certainly by that statement Prussia knew that France and Spain would activate him, and so had apparently just learned that England was 16—and Prussia even knew he would activate Hungary, who would activate Austria! China cursed to himself, running a hand up over his face, fingers raking into his hair as he slumped back against the wall, brows knitting. The entire web of secrecy was evaporating. No, no it wasn't. It was still salvageable. But, what to do, now? Britain was a handful in and of himself—arrogant, smart and with a sadistic streak that made them not the best of friends—but if he'd already woken Gallia… China palmed his face in frustration, only to look up suddenly as the door slid open and Austria entered, pausing to give him a quiet nod, which China returned. He watched silently as Austria then proceeded to ignore him as he took his personal patient chart off the counter and tapped a few buttons on the touch screen before presumably wandering off to check the status of his recent surgery patients. China took a deep breath, to steady himself. He had known this was coming, eventually. It was the same every time. And, knowing Britain, he'd wasted no time in waking Gallia from where he slept inside France. So, at the moment, they were likely—

Oh, he was not looking forward to this.

…but just to be safe, China would wait to confront them tomorrow morning.

: : :

Britain couldn't get that face out of his head, ever since Gallia had so unkindly refreshed his memory. His brother. His little brother since as far back as he could remember. His brother, who he had doted on and cared for under his mother's watchful eye. Who he had adored as only an elder sibling could—well, except for when the younger boy began to grow out of his 'cute' stage and started playing pranks on him. Every April Fool's Day it was the same, and he was sure to watch out for it—but somehow the lad always got him, in the end. Britain assented quietly to himself that he likely let the boy win, because (without fail) every Halloween he would have his revenge.

He didn't like having these thoughts. Not these thoughts, not while he was here, lying beside a naked, slumbering Fr—Gallia (curled around him like he was some goddamned pillow), the only remnant of who he used to be. Fr… Gallia had been his best friend, for as long as he could remember. And that friendship had deepened, even as they continued to hurl insults and blows at one another. Because beneath it, they both knew what it meant. The instant they were both taken, they both knew what it all really meant. And they hadn't let go. They hadn't been torn apart, they'd clung to each other as soon as they realized they were both prisoners—only a cell apart, sharing the tight space with a dozen other abducted children of their respective nationalities. Imprisoned. But for what? They were ordinary people, weren't they? They'd always been ordinary people. Going to school, doing homework, going to work, going out with friends, laughing at some stupid joke or at the lameness of one of the school's assemblies… They'd done it all, they were nothing remarkable.

Why, then, had they been taken—ripped from their homes, their lives, just as the end of the world was dawning? Why were they the ones chosen to survive, when hundreds, thousands, millions of other, more-deserving people languished and suffered and died in the aftermath of nuclear fallout?

A nuclear fallout which soiled and spoiled the planet so that it was no longer fit for humanity to inhabit.

: : :

Canada watched America eat, trying to think of the best way to broach the subject. His eyes flickered up as America flipped another small, flat, square food chip into his mouth, grinning as the taste of a full-fledged hamburger with all the trimmings made his taste-buds and appetite sing with satisfaction. Thankfully, technology had advanced far enough that taste could be simulated without the atrocious cholesterol and fat count. Truth be told, most food chips housed basically the same amount of nutrition, just in different areas. There were fruit chips, hamburger chips (obviously), vegetable chips—and they looked just like the old microchips from way back, only in different colors and without the wires and electricity. Canada snorted to himself in amusement. Who would have thought that the people of Old Earth actually needed something to be as big as palm-sized, due to the size of the microchips in those days? Of course, those chips were nothing like what America was inhaling right now…

Ah, here was his chance, America was taking a sip from his drink.

Fluids, sadly, their scientists had never quite been able to miniaturize, as the human body did need a certain amount of fluid every day. It was impossible to shrink the proportion of a beverage (down to, say, a capful-size) and still retain the same amount of water. But the food chip innovation some hundred years back still saved quite a good amount of space that could then be given over to personal belongings, water or oxygen storage. Canada shook himself out of his musings, leaning forward over the table, his naturally-soft voice low.

"America. Did something happen with England?" There was a choking sound, then a couple of hard coughs as America pounded on his chest—his drink apparently having gone down the wrong way. As he looked up, an excuse was on his lips, but Canada kept his firm look of concern—and America melted against it, as always. The blond looked off, rubbing at his cheek with the back of his hand.

"W-Well, m-maybe… y'see—"

And so America spilled the whole tale of what had happened on their scouting mission, and how England had changed so much, afterward. Canada was silent, his eyes having gone wide. For surely, if America could come to that conclusion, Canada would—

"S-So… the legends of Empires… t-they're real?" Thankfully, no one else heard his (unintentionally whisper-soft) exclamation, and America nodded, miserably, waving a hand about and being unknowingly loud.

"Yeah, I know, it's awful, England, he—" A hand on America's shoulder stopped him, and Canada blinked upon seeing China, his face drawn and looking like he was holding quite the tirade in on a tight leash. The fingers tightened on America's shoulder, China's stern brown eyes falling to the other's blue ones, brown hair pulled into a low ponytail over his shoulder stark against the white bodysuit he wore. His voice was soft, but firm.

"I am sorry about England, America. But you cannot go around saying such things so brazenly." Canada, typically, felt left out of this warning when China didn't pass him the barest glance—although he assumed it was best to keep it under wraps, with how solemn China suddenly was. America blinked up at China, frowning, brow knitting together as he opened his mouth to—

"Hey, but—" China cut him off, voice still low, knuckles whitening on the younger man's shoulder.

"I mean it, America. Do not mention the Empires again." China's expression softened, then, and he pulled his hand back, hiding it in his signature 'traditional', billowy sleeve as he bowed, slightly. "Please, America. What you know is what you know, but stay away from Britain. I will handle the situation." To that, China turned around and strode away. America and Canada watched his retreating figure in silence, until America turned back around to stare at his brother, expression blatantly confused, but voice (for once) quiet.

"I guess it's… something important, then…" Canada nodded, but looked off and away. Poor America. Losing England, so suddenly, like that—his thoughts naturally turned to Prussia, and he smiled a little. He should go talk to the Mechanic, today or tomorrow. Prussia could be quite the good advice-giver when he wanted to be. Really, there was nothing going on between them—w-well, n-not yet, but…

Prussia was still a really good friend, when he wanted to be.

: : :

Spain had to stay, if only for another moment. He had to lie here, had to watch Romano's sleeping face, had to lean in to memorize his scent, had to give just one last kiss and—

An arm looped around his neck and dragged him further into the kiss with a grumpy grumble, and Spain managed a half-forced laugh—for Romano's grumbling was always adorable and worthy of sweet laughter, but Spain was sad, this morning. They shared another moment before Spain reluctantly drew away and off the bed, stretching nude in the soft dim lighting (that supposedly simulated dawn on Old Earth) glowing in neat little rectangles hovering beneath the bed. They were activated by the usual pressure-detectors, of course, triggered as soon as Spain stepped onto the carpeted floor. One floated up and hovered a safe distance around his head, following him and casting light towards the innards of the closet as Spain pushed the door open. Romano rolled over in the bed, curling the covers around him as he peered up, squinting slightly at the lit rectangular cuboid hovering around the Mechanic's head. Spain idly tapped a random side of it with two fingers three times (without looking up), making the light brighten up three notches, to help him search.

"Nnmph, what're you doing up so early, bastard? It's only…" He squinted up at the ceiling, making out the digital letters glowing there. "Psh, 0900! Spain, get your ass back in bed! It's a Saturday!" To that, Spain only turned to smile at him—tomato-printed boxers with a lime green background and the loose white regulation tank top already on—waving a hand as he ducked his head back into his closet for a clean bodysuit.

"Mm, there is something I need to see France about, today. Go back to sleep, Romano."

'Go back to sleep?'

Spain never says that. It's always—'Oh, Roma, if only I could, but~!' or 'Oh, Roma, do you miss me that much, already~?' or 'Oh, Roma! Did you want a morning round~?'

Romano frowned at the tone, at Spain's refusal to look at him again as he slowly stepped into those dark red pant legs and hopped a little. By the time Spain had his arms in the long sleeves, the lengthy sound of the closing zipper cut through the silence like lead. Romano felt something unpleasant clutch at his heart. An old worry, one he'd had for as far back as he could remember, and could never quite quash. Spain had been acting weird since last night—and then he'd only thought it was a new assignment, but even on the mornings Spain would be leaving, he would joke.

'Ah, Roma, I am going to miss you sooo much~! Here, let me see your face—' And then Spain would squish his cheeks in and Romano would blush and Spain would giggle so Romano would flail and yell at him— 'Ah~! So cute, Roma!'—and so Spain would hug him close and pepper his face with kisses before turning dramatically and heading for the door, pausing there to smile theatrically back at him (but it was all sincere—no matter how silly or ridiculous the gesture, Spain always meant it, so… that made it all right), raise a hand towards him as though in yearning and then draw it back and clutch it into a fist atop his heart, as though capturing the emotions Romano evoked in him and holding them close and dear, forever. …N-Not that Romano was becoming a sap! He'd just been around Spain long enough to know what those gestures and lengthy, loving glances meant, dammit all! And then, after all that, Spain would leave and not be back for a few days, or weeks, or a month. But, today, right now—

"Something's really wrong, isn't it." Romano's voice was too soft, he thought—too vulnerable and raw. Spain turned away, pushing the two snaps up by his neck (with the flap that hid the full length of the zipper) closed. He tried a laugh, but it felt weak.

"O-O-Oh, no, Roma~!" The use of that damned nickname he usually hated with grudging affection made him cold. Couldn't Spain just tell him, outright? Romano scowled, crawling off the bed (in his boxers, of course—he never slept with Spain without at least partially dressing himself, afterwards!) and starting towards him.

"Spain…" Suddenly Spain turned, all humor gone from his expression. There was sadness there. Spain couldn't fake sadness. Romano felt his gut clench, encased in ice. Spain smiled kindly at him. Romano wanted to throw up. Spain slowly walked forward, reaching out to cup his cheek. Romano half-expected him to lean in and kiss him, but Spain only stared at him for a moment before blinking, and smiling that same, sad smile—and then crushing his world, so gently that it almost ached.

"We must be done, Roma. That is all there is. Do not come back here." He froze, unbelieving. Spain beamed at him quietly, before letting his hand drop and walking out of the bedroom. Still reeling from the shock, Romano collapsed back on the bed when his legs unlocked—staring, dumbfounded, at the floor. He heard the sounds of Spain moving about in the other room, slipping his shoes on—at the table where they'd eaten so many meals— His brain caught up with his mind, jolting him out of the heart-choking thoughts and he lunged up, dashing out into the living room, breath ragged as he held onto the threshold of the door for support, spying Spain just by the door, blinking quietly back at him in muted surprise. Spain smiled again, for him—smiled the same as he had all morning, and never had Romano hated one of Spain's smiles this much in all his life. The hurt welled up first, and he snarled, bellowing out his anger.

"What the fuck are you saying, you idiot? You can't just— You can't just say that and expect me to believe it! Dammit Spain! You're not supposed to… to—" Here Romano stumbled over the words, fighting with himself to say them, to shout them like he had a thousand other insults, but— "I-I… hate you! It's been six fucking years since I graduated from the Academy and you couldn't tell me before now that you've decided I'm not worth it? Spain! I-I—" Again, he couldn't say it, so Romano just went with the familiar. "I hate you! I-I don't need you! S-So what if you don't want me, I'm a great catch and I know it!" It was all lies, all lies to cover up his hurt, but he couldn't help saying them—they tumbled from his lips with such ease, such fluid thought, that he couldn't help letting them out. And he glared at Spain, dammit, and he wasn't crying and Spain didn't look like he was almost crying, and—wait, what? Spain was crying? Spain turned around before he could be sure, and Romano sniffled softly, eyes and nose already running like a river.

"Th-That's good, Roma. Hate me. Hate me and never come back. I-I d-don't want to s-s-see you, again, a-anyway…" Spain's voice was shaking pathetically but before he could comment or call him on it Spain turned around and yelled at him, eyes squinted shut. "D-Don't seek me out, Romano! Stay away from me!" Then Spain slammed his hand onto the palm scanner at the left side of the door and ran out.

The sound of boots clapping furiously against the metal floor of the hall and getting slowly farther away was cut off as the door slid automatically shut. Blinking amidst his tears, Romano stared at it for a moment before cursing to himself and darting back into the bedroom to grab his green Fighter bodysuit that'd been tossed on the floor, last night. Like hell he'd let Spain get off that easily! He'd known the idiot since he was nine, and Spain had kissed him the day he graduated—Romano was thirteen, by then—giving him his e-mail and whispering for Romano to send him a letter when he turned eighteen. Spain had captured his heart first at the Academy, but they'd not gone any further until the day Romano (at that point a fresh graduate, ready for work ) stormed up to the door of this very apartment and thrust the small disc with the e-mail information on it (which Spain had given to him five years earlier, when he graduated) into Spain's surprised fingers. Romano had then forced himself not to run (for once in his life), and grabbed the idiot's hair in both of his hands, pulling him into a hard kiss. They'd been together since, and that was six years ago.

Romano would get to the bottom of this. He wasn't about to let Spain go without a fight!

: : :

Remember to check my profile for pictures related to this fic~! Thanks for reading!

Fun fact: I have no idea how long this story will be, anymore. x.o;; ...Review, if you can? :3 -Fox