I do not own Hetalia

France was quite worried.

America was still not responding, even though it had been a good week since England had . . .

He was still in his coma.

Even though having your heart torn out and left on the floor was quite the serious injury, he should have woken up in a day or two, seeing as nations, in general, recovered quite fast. As America was the superpower of the world, he should have bounded along, growing back a new heart that would function normally within three to five weeks. He should have woken up a day after the incident, the new heart beginning the recover process. He should have been able to smile and cheerfully (albeit, obnoxiously) said, "Don't worry! The hero will save the day!"

Should have, should have, should have.

The point being that he didn't.

The only reason that he would have stayed in a coma would be if his capital had been bombed, which had obviously not happened, seeing it would have raised a huge national issue.

The French man was worried for his large, overly in-your-face, American ally.

He was also worried for his now psychotic, always-insane, British . . . rival?

Russia had quickly restraint the tiny man, somehow struggling to hold him captive. England had been snarling and growling like a wild animal, quite unlike the gentleman he usually pretended to be. China and France had gagged as the metallic scent of blood clogged their noses, refusing to let them be. The huge Russian seemed unaffected, the small, innocent, ever-present smile still on his face.

"Get off me, you drunk bastard!" he snapped, thrashing around in the Russian's grip.

"Comrade England needs to sleep for some time, da?" the man said sweetly. "Let mother Russia help you."

And then he smashed a gloved fist into the Brit's head, nearly breaking his neck and certainly knocking him out for a long, long time. If the man had been human, he would have certainly been dead, his skull crushed with brute force.

After a brief bout of panic and hundreds of, "Why did he do that?" and, "What the hell is wrong with him?" China had come to his senses and called an ambulance to ferry America to a hospital.

France and China had dragged the unconscious England out of the conference room, stuffing him into China's tiny car, and then set out for England's home.

The drive was long and silent, both of them glancing back periodically at the knocked out man. Althought France knew that Russia had hit hard enough to knock him out for a good day, (It was a well known fact that Russia didn't like England) it still didn't help his steadily increasing paranoia.

The pair quickly scrambled out of the car when they pulled in front of England's stately mansion, set in the middle of nowhere. France quickly moved a flower pot to the side, revealing the spare key and unlocked the door. Pushing it open, it opened with a slight creaking sound, showing off its antique insides.

It took the two of them to lug the body up into the bedroom, where France had produced a set of handcuffs from his back pocket, (China had rolled his eyes and left quickly, with a, "Aiyah France, don't do anything to him, aru!") and cuffed the Brit's hands together behind the wooden headboard.

France was tempted to just leave him chained on his bed for a few days, just to get back at him for breaking his beautiful nose, but the shout from China convinced him otherwise. Clicking his heels together, he spun around and left the room quickly.

England could have sworn that he hadn't fallen asleep. But how else could one explain the sudden change from his bright bedroom to dark nothingness?

Besides going suddenly blind.

Shaking his head side to side, he took a few steps forward, almost immediately hitting what felt like a stone wall. Frowning a bit now, he turned around and headed the other way, the sounds of his shoes clicking against the invisible floor echoing in the darkness. It wasn't long before he hit another wall, only three or four steps away from the other wall.

Now, with slight claustrophobia clouding his mind, England reached out to the sides, his hands brushing another two walls.

So. He was boxed in, stuck in some pitch black room, with no bloody idea how he gotten here.

This screamed supernatural.

Almost as if he had said it out loud, a blonde girl materialized out of nowhere, hovering a few in front of him. It was almost like a spotlight was on her; even though he could see her as clearly as if she was in a sunny field, the things around her stayed pitch dark, the ground below her feet glowing a little grey.

She almost seemed familiar somehow, with slightly wavy, dirty blonde hair put in a ponytail that ran to the middle of her back, obstructing the three white numbers printed on the back of her black leather jacket. He could faintly tell that she had a cowlick standing up on the front of her face, pointing to the right.

"Hey," came a bored voice from right next to England. He whipped his head around to see his own personal demon sitting on the floor next to him, head propped up with a fist.

How could I have not noticed her?

The girl stiffened for a moment and slowly turned around, revealing an oval shaped face, with a pair of wire rimmed glasses slipping to the side. Even though she looked rather fit, she still had a bit of chubbiness to her cheeks, making her look rather childish.

England held his breath, praying to the Lord that she wasn't what he thought she was.

Her eyes, instead of a sky blue color like they were on America, were a shade of brilliant, fiery orange.

She instantly relaxed when she saw the source of the voice, her face lighting up with a radiant smile. "It's you!" she squealed, almost literally launching herself forward and tackling England's demon to the ground with a bone-crushing hug.

England could see a twitch in his demon's eye as she quickly wormed her way out of the other demon's grip. "That never happened," she informed the other girl before smiling. "You're actually here! I thought I would start with you, since you've only been in that idiot's body for maybe 300 years."

"'course Pride! You know that I would be all for a war! It means gaining more land!"

Pride—evidently, that was her name—smirked and looked straight at England. "Hear that, host? America is now part of World War III. He'll be your enemy."

Well, I managed to get through this chapter.

I hate it so much.

Anyway, give a moment of silence for 9/11 tomorrow, it's the tenth anniversary. I would post this tom, but that would be slightly unpatriotic as America here is a female demon ^^

R and R!