Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia

None of the follow is real history/the future. Some of it might be somewhat true but the rest is made up. And no, the queen is not insane.

It had been at least a century since the Hiroshima bombing.

None of the many presidents, prime ministers, dictators, leaders or emperors have seen hide or hair of their countries.

When the main eight countries of WWII had disappeared, the rest of the countries had decided to follow suit. Even the ones that had not been involved with the war had almost vanished instantly. Surprisingly enough, Switzerland and Liechtenstein had been the first to go after China's disappearance.

For a while, ever thing seemed alright. Nothing disastrous happened, there weren't any sudden economy falls. Although the Cold War was in full swing, and other various wars broke out, that was the people's decision.

Quickly, the world forgot about the anthropomorphic nations. Fifty years later, the United States destroyed all records of an "Alfred F. Jones". Ivan Braginski, Yao Wang and Kiku Honda never existed. Fransis Bonnefoy, Ludwig and Feliciano Varges were scoffed at and considered the product of over imaginative minds. The Queen of England insisted that she had known an Arthur Kirkland, but it had been dismissed as senile drivel.

She was locked away in an asylum soon enough.

Falling into a worldwide depression, tensions were higher than ever. Most people could see the inevitable war on the horizon.

Except for the leaders of the country. They kept on saying everything was fine.

There was no war.

There were no nuclear weapons ready to fire.

Finally.

That bastard Pride was finally standing in front of him.

"England, you little prat, you're alive!"

Her hair had grown a lot, falling down to the back of her knees even though she had it French braided. Still retaining her childish looks, her orange eyes had faded into a soft violet color, with faux warmness piled on. She was wearing what looked like a schoolgirl's outfit, with the small, plaid skirt, the white sleeveless shirt and a neatly done tie.

"Aren't I beautiful?" Giving England a small whirl, her braid reared up and smacked him gently on the cheek. "I'm gracing you with my presence." A monstrous grin planted itself on Pride's face, ruining the child look.

"Go die in hell," England spat, throwing a glare at the girl. For the past few days, (years? Decades? Who knew?), he had sunk into a deep pit, with no one but the little voice keeping him awake, with its spiteful, bitter comments.

God? Please. He doesn't love you humans. You're a toy to Him.

Go ahead and kill yourself England. Your nation is getting along fine without you. And like magic, a silver blade would come sliding over to him on the floor, spinning to a stop right in front of his feet.

He had really considered taking the blade and ripping out his own throat. Instead, he settled for carving long, elaborate designs on his arm, watching the blood fall down and become swallowed by the darkness.

Weakling. So you can't bring yourself to cut your throat, so you'll just maim your arm instead? Lovely.

But the moment Pride appeared, it was like a lit match had been dropped on wood.

He wanted to slaughter her.

He was not weak. In fact, he was probably even better than that wanker.

Said wanker let out a small, tinkling laugh. "That's good. You're so different from Ancient Greece. She gave up in here after only three decades. But," she leaned in, staring hungrily into the nation's eyes. England squirmed and tried to back away. She was far too close for comfort.

"You've started to become even more corrupted, yes? I can tell."

You've been hearing voices. The little voice that seems to be so bitter and cynical.

"Can I tell you something England?"

That little voice . . .

"You already know who it is."

After all, you've been listening—

"—to him talk for all of your life."

Do you want me to say it?

"It's not me."

It's you

"It's you."

And then Pride's hand had shot out, wrapping itself around England's wrist with an iron vice. He could have sworn he could hear little cracking noises.

The demon chuckled slightly at the man's paling face. "Didn't you think you were better than me? Where's your pride?"

Easily jerking him up to his feet, Pride's arm extended to unnatural proportions, holding England so that he had to stare into her eyes. A wide smirk was on her face, taunting him to act.

"So England. Do you want to see your precious country again?"

Security at the White House had doubled—no, tripled. There were guards swarming over every single inch, each one armed heavily. They shot down anything that came within fifty yards of the gate—no questions asked.

It was still no problem for Pride to get through.

After all, it wasn't like a country could die.

And it wasn't like a demon could die.

So when the personification of Great Britain strolled up to the black metal gates, he wasn't really full of fear when he was met with at least 15 rounds of bullets.

They hurt, sure, but as far as Pride was concerned, England's body was just a puppet—she was controlling from far away, distant from anything that happened. The bullets that ripped through flesh didn't touch through—they only hurt her host.

Her disposable host.

As the frenzy of shots slowly died down, the mangled body of England slowly swayed on the spot, somehow still managing to stand even with five shots to each leg.

And like a puppet dancing on strings, he began to move forward again, despite how it broke all the laws of nature. His bones were fractured into tiny pieces, his heart had to be mincemeat, and one eye was already missing—the gaping black hole where it had been was leaking blood. But even as he was walking, the bullets fell out of him, the flesh pushing them out as it started to rapidly reform itself.

The guards stared in utter disbelief before the loud command to open fire again shocked them awake and prompted them swing their big American guns and unleash their full fury.

And even with all the hundreds of bullets they had were wasted, the puppet continued along his way, moving more jerkily than usual but still with more grace than a human.

He had made his way to the fountain, making his way through the plants before clambering onto the stone rim. He spread his arms and looked at all of the stunned men that stared at him.

A sweet smile was forced onto his face before they both uttered the same phrase.

"Would you happen to know where the President is?"

And I have writers block. Wonderful thing, isn't it?

And homework. Joy.

R and R