The frigid wind cut deeply into their bodies the instant they materialized. It howled harshly in their ears, as if offended that these four had dared to step foot in its icy, treacherous domain.

England swore softly under his breath and pulled his coat tightly around himself. "Damn, that's cold."

Wales whacked him on the arm. "Of course it's cold; it's the bloody Arctic Circle, you imbecile."

The two bickered half-heartedly, more focused on their current mission than the usual arguments.

Ireland turned on the spot, scanning the frozen wasteland around them. "Where is it?" he said in frustration. "His magic signature originated from here. Any complex where North is being held should be nearby."

"There." Scotland pointed off to their right. A sprawling group of buildings, almost invisible in the stark whiteness, stretched out beneath them in a large gorge.

Scotland leaned over the edge, keen eyes taking in the structure. He took in the guard's complexes situated alongside every building, the watch towers spiking up out of the snow, and the conveniently fortified position with an expert eye. He looked sidelong at his brothers as they joined him along the cliff.

"Generally," the Scottish nation started with a nonchalant air. "When I see this many guards surrounding one place, I tend to think that the owners of said place might have something to hide." His eyes hardened. "I vote for a direct approach."

Wales chewed his lip thoughtfully as he contemplated the complex. "If we attacked from that side," he said, pointing underneath the closest guard tower. "We'd have at least three minutes before any other guards reached that spot. Enough time to take out the tower and get in."

Ireland nodded. "You're right." He fingered the hilt of his knife with a gloved hand, as though impatient to start using it.

They all knew that speed was the key in this assault. They needed to get in, find their brother, and get out before anything else could be done to him. And while they were basically immortal, running into the full strength of the other side's forces would slow them down a great deal. Bullet wounds were fairly painful.

They were so close. Since Ireland had mentioned it, their youngest brother was starting to have a faint presence in their minds. He was here. They just needed to get to him.

After sharing wordless looks of communication, the four brothers started down the steep, treacherous cliff face, trying not to slip on the slick, jagged ice that protruded from the gorge's rough walls.


North could feel them the moment they arrived.

Tearing himself from the dark, blissfully pain-free place that was unconsciousness was difficult, but he forced himself torturously into the waking world. He moaned softly as the overwhelming pain and exhaustion crashed down on him once again as his eyes blinked open. North focused fuzzily on the same ceiling that he had been staring at for the past few days.

He licked his chapped lips dully, dimly recognizing the lack of the coppery taste of blood. Someone must have cleaned his face while he had been out. North cringed, a little disturbed by that thought.

The realization of why he had woken up slowly crept up on him. They were here. His brothers had actually come. For him. North closed his eyes and smiled, as small bubble of hope growing in his chest.

But right now, he needed to get out of this room. Looking up, North tugged on the cuffs that bound his wrists to the table. They didn't move. North gritted his teeth and yanked as hard as he could on them, ignoring the pain from his abused wrist bones. He was alarmed by the weakness prevailing in his limbs. Dark spots were already swimming before his eyes at the sudden burst of effort he had given. Even if he did get off the table, he doubted he could stand, let alone run.

Huffing a deep sigh, North rested his head back on the table. For perhaps the hundredth time since he had been captured and thrown into this nightmare, North fervently wished that he had control over magic like his brothers did. This wouldn't have happened to them.

Mother Britannia's words echoed in his ears. But you do have magic, Tuaisceart Éireann. It's locked deep inside you, and only you can find it and unlock it.

The teenage nation blinked at the ceiling, remembering.

"That doesn't do me any good if I can't find it," he said, his voice soft and raspy from screaming. The words faded into the dark room without any echoes.

North sighed and closed his eyes again. Taking a deep breath, he opened his mind the way his brothers had taught him and looked deep inside himself. He searched for anything different, anything new, anything that might indicate magic. But he just found the emptiness of his own mind. Frustrated, he rolled his head to the side. This was useless.

A distant explosion rattled his thoughts. He could hear men shouting. Heavy feet rushed past his room, accompanied by the clanking and clattering of weapons.

Once again, North smiled.


The guard tower exploded, raining flaming debris down upon the surrounding people.

Scotland grunted in appreciation. "Nice one, Cymru." He carelessly ran one of guards unfortunate enough to be closest to him through with a swift thrust of his claymore.

Wales simply nodded, eyes narrowed in concentration as he finished his spell. The red and gold flames curled playfully around his fingers. Pivoting, he thrust his hands forcefully towards a pair of guards running towards him. The flames soared from his outstretched hands with a roar. One of the men shrieked as the fire completely engulfed the two of them. Wales clapped his hands together as though brushing dirt off and drew his own sword, searching for his next target.

Ireland threw one of the men against the wall of the building with a snarl, advancing quickly. The man recovered and brought his gun up, firing a round of shots at the Irish nation. Ireland grimaced and threw up a swirling green shield with one hand. The bullets sank into the magic and stayed, hovering in midair. The guard's eyes widened in shock. Then they went blank and lifeless as the nation stabbed him through the chest with his scian. Ireland moved on.

A particularly large guard went after England, who backed up with a smirk, letting the man come towards him. The man seemed to have the idea that this nation was the weakest, due to being the shortest. This theory was disproved. The English nation sidestepped the gun shot from the rifle and lunged forwards, twisting the gun out of the human's hands. He finished the motion with a spinning pivot and slammed the butt of the rifle fiercely into the back of the man's neck. The guard dropped like a stone.

Scotland got to the side door first. Eyes blazing, he viciously cut down the one of the remaining guards, barely sparing the dying man a glance. The redheaded nation eyed the door with narrowed eyes. A dark blue aura swirled dangerously around him. The next moment saw the door (and most of the wall) shattering inwards from a murderous magically-augmented kick. Scotland swiftly turned back to his brothers.

"Come on!" he barked.

Ireland followed first, leaping over the smoldering wreckage as lightly as the deer of his homeland. Wales and England entered the building just as swiftly, with England covering the rear with the rifle he had procured. Scotland eyed the modern weapon with a small amount of distaste.

"Afraid of getting your hands dirty?"

England just smirked, reloading the gun with quick, deft movements that spoke of years of experience.

"Oh, don't worry," the blond nation scoffed. "My hands will be fine while they're taking out that guard you didn't notice before he shoots off that bloody oversized head of yours."

Scotland raised an eyebrow back at his younger brother, unperturbed by the saucy response.

"Oi, come on then." Ireland called back impatiently.

The four of them continued through the white corridors of the facility.


The alarms blared their emotionless warning all throughout the facility, red lights flashing off of the white walls. Personnel ran through the corridors. Some of them were troops of guards that were moving to get to the point of the break-in in an attempt to halt the attackers. The rest were scientists and medical personnel that were panicking and running about, trying to get their data stored and machines saved before getting outside to the runway. They were evacuating, just in case the security personnel couldn't hold the intruders.

And then there was Dr. Thorne.

The doctor stopped and sidestepped as another squadron of security guards went rushing past. He scowled as they unintentionally pressed him into the wall due to the cramped corridor space. It's largely thanks to them that this operation is as successful as it is, but if I didn't need them I'd get rid of them all in a heartbeat.

Dr. Thorne had been in the security room when the alarms went off. He had quickly checked the cameras that viewed the entire facility for the cause. And what had he found?

More nations.

At first, he hadn't been able to believe it. He had simply stared in stupefied silence at the screen, watching. Watching the ruthless efficiency in which they cut down his forces. The speed in which they managed to get inside. And the impossible. Was that… magic?

He had been surprised at how quickly he had accepted the magic part. Maybe a part of his mind screamed for the acceptance of this fact because of his failures in finding anything concrete about the illusive immortality that his subject bore. Surely, if it was magic… then he was not failing! He just needed to go in a different direction…

Preferably away from this facility. It was currently in shambles.

First he needed to retrieve his subject. All of the guards were currently indisposed, so he would have to do it himself. But he was confident that his forces could hold the nations off for a least a few more minutes-

With an ear-piercing boom, the door at the end of the hallway exploded and sent fiery shrapnel flying everywhere. The unfortunate front row of personnel that had just gone by was caught full force by the blast. They were thrown to the floor, many pierced with the sharp debris that had been hurled at them with super speed.

The nations stepped through the hole they had just created in the wall.

These four carried even more of that ancientness than his current subject. They fairly glowed with it. They held medieval weapons for the most part, although the blond one seemed to have gotten his hand on a guard's assault rifle. The incompetent fools.

Dr. Thorne's keen gaze didn't miss the fury in their bright green eyes, nor the drops of blood that stained their weapons and clothing. His subject was restrained and under control. He did not want to deal with these wild nations. He had things to do.

Quickly, before the nations saw him, Dr. Thorne ducked in a side door. He kept his back pressed against the wall in the darkness, barely breathing as he listened to the sounds of battle that continued out in the corridor. The nations were working their way down the hall into the heart of his facility. No doubt they were looking for their fellow nation.

Dr. Thorne waited until the clashing and screaming had died down and gotten much further away before he dared to move. He cautiously opened the door to peek out. Carnage met his gaze.

The entire squadron, 15 men, was completely slaughtered down to the last man. The doctor gazed at the blood-soaked bodies for a moment. Those faint flares of anger were starting to boil up inside him again.

How dare they? How dare they come here, and think that they can just take my subject away?! No! I've worked far too hard to let all this come to ruin now! I won't allow it!

Unaware of the angered sneer on his face, the doctor dropped to one knee and searched the closest corpse. Handcuffs. The dead man's pistol. He took those two items and stood back up, tucking them both into his belt. He thought for a moment and patted his pockets. He found the syringe he was looking for, and then returned it to his pocket.

Unfortunately for the group of nations, they were going the wrong way. Dr. Thorne turned down a side corridor and headed for his subject.


The door wasn't locked. Dr. Thorne hadn't thought there would be any need for it. After all, how was the nation going to escape?

He hadn't visited in over a day, and the room was exactly as he had left it. Dr. Thorne opened the heavy metal door, checking cautiously over his shoulder to make sure there weren't any rampaging nations storming up behind him. Satisfied that he was alone, he swiftly entered the room.

Northern Ireland was yanking on the cuffs that were keeping his hands fastened to the table when the doctor came in. The young nation looked exhausted and sickly, but was determinedly working his wrists around in an attempt to free them. At Dr. Thorne's entrance, his ginger head snapped around, fixing his gaze on him. The doctor could see the faint light of hope in his subject's eyes fade to surprise and dismay as the nation recognized the figure coming towards him.

Stopping in front of the table, Dr. Thorne searched his pockets in irritation. He seemed to have lost the syringe again.

"You're going to lose."

Startled, the doctor scowled at his subject. "What did you say to me?" Dr. Thorne snapped.

"My brothers are here." The corner of the young nation's mouth lifted in a hint of a weak grin. "They found me, and they're going to deal with you. When they all work together…" the young nation was interrupted by a small coughing fit. When he got his breath back-"When they all work together, there's nothing that can stop them."

Dr. Thorne found his syringe and yanked it out of his pocket, practically simmering with rage. He grasped the nation's chin, looking him straight in the eyes. Northern Ireland's eyes widened and his breath hitched as he came to a realization of what the man was doing. "They're not getting you back," the doctor snarled. "We're leaving right now-" he expertly checked the tip-"And there is nothing that can stop that from happening."

Dr. Thorne roughly forced his subject's head to the side so that the vulnerable underside of the nation's throat was exposed. Northern Ireland flinched and struggled to get away from him, but there was nothing he could do with his wrists and ankles bound.

"No! Get away from-" the nation shuddered as the needle pierced the side of his neck, dumping its malignant contents into his bloodstream.

Dr. Thorne withdrew the needle and stepped back a pace, waiting for the sedative to do its job. It had taken him a while to perfect this cocktail of drugs and narcotics. Normal strength sedatives didn't do much, but this particular mixture worked on the young nation like an ordinary dosage on a human.

The doctor watched with satisfaction at the way Northern Ireland's eyes blurred as drowsiness took over. The nation weakly shook his head as he tried to fight off the effects. In the end though, he lost the battle to stay conscious and his body went limp in his restraints.

After taking a moment to affirm that his subject was indeed unconscious, Dr. Thorne quickly set about unbuckling the leather cuffs. The doctor heaved the young nation up into a sitting position, ignoring the dried blood that still stained his bare torso. Northern Ireland's head swung listlessly to the side in response to the motion. Pulling his subject's wrists behind his back, the doctor cuffed them together with the handcuffs he had taken off the guard earlier. Dr. Thorne cinched them tight and contemplated Northern Ireland for a moment. As an afterthought, he used the bandanna he had with him to gag the nation as well. If they did run into the four nations (brothers, wasn't that fascinating) he wanted to be completely in control of the situation.

Now to get out of there. Stooping, Dr. Thorne managed to sling his subject over his shoulders in an improvised fireman's carry. He was mildly surprised at how light the young nation was. He supposed it made sense. After all, the Northern Ireland hadn't been very large to begin with, and two weeks of no food had left him frail and weak.

Dr. Thorne headed for the door, fairly unencumbered by his captive. He checked the hallway before stepping out into the open and hurrying as fast as he could in the direction of the hangar.


They hadn't come across any guards for several minutes now.

Ireland kicked the door in to yet another room, suspiciously scanning it before he entered. His brothers followed him in warily.

Wales searched the desks and cabinets that were stacked against the wall while England's attention was caught by the many computer screens that were displaying various images from all over the facility. Slinging his rifle over his back, he approached the computers.

"Control room?" Ireland asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Apparently," came England's reply.

Scotland snorted from where he was leaning against the wall. He was running a cloth over the blood-stained length of his claymore with a detached air. Having finished that task and scrutinized the gleaming blade one last time, the redhead sheathed it.

"Does that mean that we can find more of these bastards to kill? Because I don't think I'm quite done yet."

"Alba," Ireland said softly, not looking up from the computers he and England were studying. Scotland tightened his jaw and just nodded. The other brothers knew he didn't really mean it. The Scottish nation was simply troubled by their lack of progress so far.

England tapped one of the monitors, drawing Ireland attention to it. "Look," the English nation stated. "This explains why we haven't seen anybody for a while. They're evacuating."

Ireland leaned closer, frowning as he took in the small colored feed that was showing groups of people moving with reasonable haste towards various vehicles that seemed to be in an underground hangar. They looked mostly like scientists or doctors. Many of them had white coats on, and had bundled up hastily.

"That's a lot more people than I thought would be here." Ireland's face was grim. "Our Dr. Thorne has been pretty extensive in his recruiting. Speaking of the devil…" he said, glancing down at his brother. "Have you seen him yet on any of these?"

England frowned in concentration as he tapped a few more commands in the computers. The screens cycled, flashing through different rooms and corridors, all mostly empty now. "No, I haven't. I tried looking at some of the basic labs, but-"

A particularly harsh Welsh swear word cut through whatever he had been about to say.

Scotland glanced up from where he had been re-polishing his sword, a surprised eyebrow raised. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard that particular word choice come from the most level-headed of the Britannia brothers…

His momentary amusement was sharply cut away as he took in the expression on his brother's face. Wales's face was stark white and his green eyes were blazing with a dragon-like fire. His fingers shook slightly where they clutched a sheaf of papers he had found in one of the cabinets.

The two nations monitoring the computers had also glanced over in a mixture of mild surprise and humor. Both were taken aback at the Welsh nation's sudden rage. Ireland straightened up in concern.

"Cymru?" Ireland asked in trepidation. "What did you find?"

Wales swallowed hard, clenching a fist. He pointed at the words printed dispassionately on the page. "These tests…" He seemed to have trouble finding the rights words to say. "They're ones they did one North."

Everyone else's eyes widened at that. Scotland shoved himself off the wall immediately, and yanked a few papers out of Wales's hand. The Welsh nation didn't even react to that. He just kept staring at the papers he had retained.

Scotland read the first few lines of the tests and their results and his face went just as white as his brother's. His breath hitched in his throat.

"It's like a concentration camp," Wales whispered hoarsely. The room went deathly quiet as the other two that hadn't seen the records understood the implications of that statement.

"Those… those…" Ireland couldn't seem to come up with a sufficiently dirty term to express his feelings in this matter. His face tightened. A colder rage than the one Wales had shown was settling in. "I'm going to burn this whole place to the ground," he snarled. Scotland growled in agreement.

"We need to find North now." England had turned back to the computers and was savaging searching the video feeds again. His fingers fairly flew over the keyboard as he keyed in commands. His first finger paused over one button as he recognized something.

On the video screen, a dark-haired man was hurrying down an empty hallway in what seemed to be the general direction all the other personal had taken. And over his shoulder…

A familiar ginger-haired form hung limply in the man's grasp.

"North!" England shouted, springing to his feet. He checked the feed again, noting the specific hallway and direction the man-was that Dr. Thorne?- was taking. His brothers had paused at his exclamation and crowded around him, looking at the screen as well. "He's heading for the last hangar," England said urgently.

Almost in the same movement, the four brother nations were out the door and running down the hallway in the same direction as fast as they could manage. They all hoped, prayed, that they would get there in time.

They couldn't lose him again.


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