SAFETY WARNING; all Nations depicted in this story are FICTIONAL CHARACTERS, don't try anything you read here with drones and real people!
Disclaimer: "Hetalia" and all related characters and situations do not belong to me, but are used for entertainment purposes without intent to profit or the permission of their original owners.
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"February Fourth"
'2019'
By J.T. Magnus, 'Turbo'
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It was warm; warmer than it had been for weeks. That silly cold front had finally figured out that it just couldn't beat the hero's jacket and disappeared, leaving Alfred F. Jones to enjoy a warm, sunny day. Or he would have been if it had been any other warm, sunny day. This day, however, was the fourth day of the second month; or, as Alfred had known it for the past one hundred and fifty-four years - the day that sore loser kept trying to cause trouble. It had only gotten worse over the past ten years or so, though.
Seven years ago, it had been fireworks in the middle of the night.
Six years before had been inexplicably silent, but the year after that had involved being woken up by redneck music at dawn.
Four years past, his house had been vandalised horribly and that rotten creep had gotten himself some kind of helper.
Three years had been a repeat of two years before, music at dawn.
The year before last, the jerk had actually gone so far as to try and play mind games with him. Then, last year, he'd though the idiot had finally given up, only for Franciso to team up with the idiot and his little minion and go crazy in May.
Any other day, Alfred could have enjoyed it. On this day, however, he was paranoid and with good reason. After all, the ones that were out to get him really were working together. It was taking all his self-control not to try darting from cover to cover or ask his bosses if he could borrow some Secret Service agents from the protective branch for the next day or so.
Then he heard it. First one buzzing sound, then another, looking around he couldn't see any sources for them and that wasn't a good thing as far as the Nation of the United States of America was concerned. That's when it got worse...
The music started with the instruments - drums, trumpets, fifes, then came the words out of nowhere, filling the very air and cutting across the buzzing sound.
"We are a band of brothers; and native to the soil; fighting for our liberty; with treasure, blood and toil; And when our rights were threatened; the cry rose near and far; Hurrah for for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star..."
As Alfred clenched his teeth and growled, the sources of the buzzing finally showed themselves, two black shapes rising over a treetop and moving towards him. At first, he couldn't be sure what they were, then they suddenly dove at him. Jerking to the left, he avoided the first, smaller one, but he had to drop to a knee to evade the second one, larger than its companion.
'Drones,' Alfred mentally swore as he got back to his feet.
He was under attack by drones and he didn't even have a BB gun with him; mentally he cursed his own foolishness for going without a weapon on this of all days. After missing him, the drones had veered off to either side, flanking him, and Alfred knew that even if he somehow managed to down one with some gravel or something, the other would take the opening and attack him from behind. If he made it out of this without breaking his glasses or tearing his jacket, he was going to have a talk with the FAA about their loosening regulations of those stupid things.
While he was thinking that, the drones began slowly circling around him, and Alfred thought he saw an opening; the little one was in front of him and if he could down it, he might be able to dive for the bushes and use them for cover until he could make it to safety. Slowly, he bent down to scoop up some small rocks and quickly stood back up when he saw the drones follow him down as though planning to attack if he tried. The buzzing of the larger one seemed to grow angry and before he could turn around to face it, it had swooped down, barely missing Alfred's head, and did a flip and twist in front of him so that it was now facing him, bobbing there in mid-air like a four-propped cobra with its hood spread.
Despite himself, Alfred gulped...
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On a nearby hill, two figures were watching Alfred's predicament gleefully - considering that they were the ones causing it, the controllers for the drones held in their hands. The larger of the two wore a distinctive set of glasses and a grey kepi hat to complement their otherwise casual attire of jeans and a camoflague t-shirt, while their young and smaller compatriot was dressed in an old-style sailor's uniform. By name they were John R. Sutherland and Peter Kirkland, the Nations of the Confederate States of America and of Sealand, respectively.
John chuckled to himself at what he was watching, "Enjoying the new 'Confederate Air Force', Billy?"
Peter hugged his controller, "I can't wait to show this to Big Brother; I now have air assault capability! He'll have to take me seriously and Recognise me now!"
"Don't get ahead of yourself. First we need to establish your 'Sealand Aviation Division' as a credible threat..." John cautioned his young friend. "See if you can knock his hat off."
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Author's Note: Dedicated to the drones I got for this past Christmas and have been enjoying...
