Despite All, Shit Happens

When America's senses came to, the first thing he did was shiver. Harshly. All he knew about where he was was that it felt like being on a mountaintop. A small bubble of unease rose in his stomach and he had an internal debate over keeping his eyes permanently shut or taking in his surroundings, however horrible they may be. The first almost won out, until an accented voice hit his ears.

"You are comfortable?"

America's bubble of unease turned into one of fear; he knew that voice and he really wished he didn't. America opened his eyes, sapphire orbs growing a fraction at what he saw despite already knowing.

"Russia," It was only after the other smiled a fake sweet smile did America find he was strapped down on an icy ledge-type surface. He glanced past Russia's large form to discover - with an audible gasp - that he was in an ice cave. Giving a curious pull at his restraints America found them to be heavy metal chains that barely moved at his pull. How peculiar.

"What do you want with me?" Try as he might, America could not keep the fear out of his voice.

The Russian, much to America's annoyance, let out a childish giggle, a much too innocent look on his face. "Oh, nothing really. I had heard you were on a picnic with Англия and decided I didn't like that very much. So why not come and ruin the occasion, da?" However angelic Russia looked on his exterior the malice in those violet eyes were as bright and obvious as the sun in the desert. America really hated that.

"Too bad England'll come and get me before you can start your rape-fest," he spoke cockily, like he could already sense the British man on a quest to retrieve him. Though he was totally not a damsel in distress.

Russia tilted his head to the side, feigning amusement. "Is that what you think? How funny, considering the fact that you're currently in a high mountain cave in my country."

America wasn't sure when his jaw had dropped.

"I suggest you make yourself at home, моя дорогая Америка." Oh how he absolutely despised that smile. "I'll be taking my leave now, but I shall be back within due time." Waving a gloved hand the large man exited the cave, disappearing from the American's sight.

Said American wanted to melt into the ice beneath him; he wasn't sure Arthur would actually come and get him out of his little predicament. Of all the places Russia just had to take him to a mountain cave. If only he could somehow tell England that - he didn't favor staying in a cave forever.

"AMERICA! AMERICA! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?! AMERICA!"

And on the other side of the world, England was about to burst. He, Germany, and Italy had returned just three minutes ago and already the picnic basket, blanket, a few surrounding trees, and a dozen yards of grass were in tatters, if it was even possible to tatter grass like fabric. It was safe enough to say that England was beyond worried or angry. Oh no, England was something akin to a grizzly bear on steroids. Italy and Germany were forced to watch the events play out, worry written across their faces. Sure it was normal for the man to have tea parties with his imaginary friends, but this was the first time either of the nations witnessed the Englishman have a tantrum, and a ginormous one at that. They would have been lying if they said that they weren't concerned about the other's mental stability.

England threw the blanket over again for the fiftieth time, growling when he was met with nothingness. He told America to go straight back to the picnic blanket while he talked with Germany and Italy. Could the arrogant nation not follow one simple order?

Throwing the blanket back to the ground England grit his teeth, shaking his head. No, America wouldn't even do something so stupid. What would that accomplish? Annoying England, yeah, but other than that, nothing. There had to be another reason as to why England couldn't locate the younger nation.

"England?" voiced Germany, getting tired of the ballistic Briton. But to his displeasure, the other decided to ignore him in favor of tearing up more of the park. England really wasn't in the mood to talk; he really just wanted to find his friend/boyfriend/lover/hopefully-soon-to-be-fiancée. (Yes, he used the feminine spelling just to make a point to the American and everyone else). England wanted to scream in frustration, but that would be considered childish, and he was certainly not that, but a proper self-proclaimed gentleman.

Stomping over to a nearby tree in the most non-childlike fashion he could muster, England drew his nails down the bark, scraping the calloused pads of his fingers beneath his gloves. His emerald eyes caught a flicker of light pink just barely out of the corner of his eye. Turning just to find out his peripheral vision wasn't lying to him, England cautiously picked up the string as if it were about to burst into flames at the touch. He examined the little piece of thread with scrutinizing eyes. Something about the innocent pink string made him wary and his gut clench.

But it was his only lead to whatever/whoever was responsible for America's absence, and damn the world if the person thought he would just ignore the situation at hand.

Shifting from foot to foot, green eyes never leaving the thread, England pondered over the mysterious minute object held in between his thumb and index finger. What could a string possibly lead him to? And why would one unsettle his stomach so much? There was defiantly something about it that didn't let England relax.

Its color was what bothered him the most. That almost white pink had a strange effect on England's subconsciousness; he felt something wanting to show itself, but it was harder to track down the thought than said.

Pink . . . light pink . . . it's soft, like a scarf. A scarf? A pink scar-

England let the string drop to the ground, lips set in a firm line, green eyes widening. Whatever the signs pointed to, England did not want them to be right.

Teeth grinding together hard enough to make his jaw pulse painfully, England marched over to the two waiting countries, emerald eyes alight with a look death would shiver at. "Germany, Italy," England's voice was cold and held close to no emotion. "sorry for the abruptness, but we're taking a little trip."

Italy exchanged a confused glance with Germany, neither countries understanding. "Um, where Inghilterra?"

The expression on England's face could only be described as murderous.

"Russia."

Germany and Italy were in for the most retarded adventure of a lifetime.

To sum up the next five hours here is what basically happened: England forced Germany and Italy to accompany him to Russia on an express flight, despite him totally being able to handle the situation on his own; Italy protested and said that his pasta would get cold; England shoved the food down the others' throats; Germany had to carry Italy for the majority of the journey; the trio ended up in a below-freezing mountainous reign in Russia; England cussed out the world and its mother almost the entire time; they ventured up an enormously insane huge mountain; and sometime along the way, they stopped to buy coats to make Italy's mindless complaining cease. Overall, it was a stupid, idiotic, mental journey that only complete retards would take on. Apparently England, Germany, and Italy were categorized as such.

The three countries were currently trekking up a slippery, caked-in-snow mountain, and all the while Italy was eating pasta. England's arms were wrapped around himself without consult with his mind, though his body felt next to nothing by the chilly weather - it was apparent England only wanted to find America and destroy the rest of the world while he did so. Germany wasn't speaking to either of them to instead think over why he even agreed to a picnic. It sounded fine at first, but how it turned into this was something not even the highest power in the universe could possibly answer.

Germany attempted to zip his coat up further but found that he couldn't. He sighed, blue eyes watching England - who was ahead of them all - climb the steep hill, a scowl written over his face. Germany was certain England had no idea where the "cave" America was in, being held captive by "Russia." The assumption sounded absurd but he wasn't about to tell that to the angered Brit.

"England?"

Said country didn't give any indication that he heard but Germany went on.

"Are you certain Russia was the one to take America? Isn't it possible America simply wandered off when you told him to go back? And if he was 'kidnapped' how do you assume he's in a cave, here, in Russia? That's a bit far fetched if you ask me."

England's climbing came to a halt and Germany briefly wondered if he said too much. "I don't need to guess where America's been taken because I know - Russia's been eyeing America for nearly a year now and it would only make sense that he was the one to take America. It clearly has to be him. And I also know it's here because where else would be an ideal place in Russia for that gargantuan idiot to take my sweet little America! He'll rob America of all his innocence and I most certainly will not let that happen, even if it kills me!"

Germany was about to respond with "Innocence? What innocence? All America's innocence already has to have been taken by being in the bed with you" but he bit his tongue before a single word could escape his lips. Who knew what kind of torture England would devise to get back at him for that comment.

"Ah, right. I just hope we get to wherever we need to get to soon; I think Italy's about to fall over dead."

The Italian wasn't far from it. He resembled a zombie, and a pretty poor one at that. Germany picked him up just before he hit the ground and carried him behind England, mumbling protests.

"How long until we get there?" Germany asked, not able to hold in his irritation any longer.

He watched the other country shrug. "If I'm right then over this hill. If I'm wrong then who knows? I can't be expected to know everything. Why don't you do something productive?" England's voice had a snotty rich-kid tone to it.

Germany held back a growl. "I'm carrying Italy. How is that not productive?"

"Whatever," England ignored everything else and continued up the hill, trying to fight back screaming out his frustration to all of Russia's mountains.

It took maybe ten more minutes for the three of them to reach the top, and when they did England immediately stopped everything besides breathing to look at what was in front of him.

A small ledge jutted out from another mountain, connecting the other and the one they stood atop. Some ways down was an opening to a cavern of ice. There was no mistaking it; he knew that's where Russia rested with America, unsuspecting their arrival. A sinister smile passed over his face - he could see no flaws in his plan. Getting America back would be as easy as riding a bike . . . so long as Italy didn't end up dying in his sleep. That wouldn't do for England's plan at all.

A/N this is a story I had been writing with a friend and she decided she wanted out, so she let me post it on my page and continue it