Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himaruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.
EDIT 9/28/2011: Gilbert's Empire name is now "Kaiser", not "King". Sorry for any confusion.
Summary: Empires were once the most powerful Fighters in the universe, but they all died or disappeared fifty years ago. Didn't they?
Title: Empire
Chapter Seven: Gridlocked
Word Count: 7,650
Page Count: 12
[Total Word Count: 49,196]
[Total Page Count: 77]
Anime: Hetalia
Pairing(s) in this chapter: Canada/Prussia, Cuba/Canada, Poland/Lithuania, England/France, Spain/Romano, Spruce (Bad Friends Trio), Russia/China
Warning: Language, BL, steamy sexual scene
Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)
Date: Monday, July 11, 2011
Miscellaneous notes: Hi there~! No, I haven't forgotten about this fic (it's been four months since I last updated, otl…), I've just been rather busy. :3 What with making YYH cosplay costumes for Otakon (at the end of this month~!) and getting back into my YYH 100,000+ -word fanfic "Second Try"—well, let's just say I've had a lot to deal with! And that's not even including family matters and work matters and such… x/x;; [ Also, this fic has been around for over a year~! \o/ Banzai! ]
At any rate, enough of this rambling~! I can't promise this chapter is my favorite, but it does have its moments and it's needed. I've been trying to write a little (roughly a section) at a time when I have the time, so if it seems a bit disjointed I do sincerely apologize! x.x But I did polish off the last 2,000 words today, so let us simply rejoice in the update~! :D (Apologies for any typos, but I'll catch all of those infuriating rascals eventually!)
[ Hopefully you'll enjoy it despite all that, though—right? Right? j~j? ]
: : : : : : :
CANADA9903-6874 and AMERICA7648-3012 sat the in Cafeteria, the latter of which surrounded by all manner of food chips he'd managed to con from his fellow CRs. Canada had left a seat between them, to avoid being caught up in all the gorging. CUBA8098-5406 and MALAYSIA3647-0082 were seated on either side of SEYCHELLES5586-3791—all three clad in their red Mechanic bodysuits—and watched on as Canada at first protested this blatant show of gluttony, then resorted to giving America dirty looks (which were ignored), and finally simply gave up with a heaved sigh, turning to engage them in conversation. Malaysia hid a smile behind her hand as Cuba attempted to de-monopoloize America's small pile of food chips—by trying to steal a few, unnoticed—and Seychelles offered up the newest bits of news as to what was going on in the Mechanic sector.
"—and Prussia was wondering about you. Said you needed to relax more." Canada blinked in surprise, cheeks coloring as he tried to hide his red face behind his cup of water.
"D-Did he… ?" Perhaps, then, it could be an opening to ask Prussia to head to the recreational floor—? Smiling encouragingly, Seychelles reached across the table to pat his arm, gently nudging him out of his musings.
"Of course! You two should go together, Prussia's racked up a few free games—" Malaysia pitched in, then, grinning as the blush over the Canadian's cheeks spread to his ears.
"Chelle's right, he's got more Game Credits than he could spend in twenty years!" At last the topic reached Cuba and he turned quickly, slamming his fist down on the table which caused everyone but America to jump, startled.
"N-No, wait! Prussia's been taking too much time off, he'll get in trouble with any more—" Seychelles cast him a frown as Malaysia rose to Canada's defense.
"But he's good at what he does, and there haven't been any major battles lately, so—" At this point, Canada very much wanted to duck under the table and disappear, but just at that moment salvation arrived in the form of—
"Chelle! Like, it's been so totally long, ohemgee! How've you been?" POLAND7725-0193 flounced up to their table in his pink bodysuit, hugging Seychelles around the neck from behind with a laugh. Heaving a sigh of relief, Canada peered over the blond's shoulder to wave a bit at an awkward-looking LITHUANIA9800-2583. The brunet offered a shaky smile, then glanced to America in question and Canada sighed, nodding with a bit of a helpless one-shouldered shrug. Frowning a little in worry, Lithuania slowly slid into the empty seat between Canada and America before speaking up, voice quiet.
"I-Is everything all right, America? You usually don't eat this much unless—"
"Yeah, you tell 'em, Liet! He should save some for the rest of us!" Canada quietly facepalmed as Cuba cut in, America swallowing before glaring and pointing an accusing finger at the stouter man.
"Like you're one to talk! Look how fat you are, you must eat ten times the amount I usually do—" Cuba growled and lunged over the table, food chips clattering to the ground as he grabbed America around the collar, hissing at him.
"I've told you, it's a genetic condition! Ain't nothin' I can do about it, you glutton! I eat the same amount as everyone else!" America sneered at him, hands rising to pinch and pull out Cuba's cheeks.
"Yeah, just fifty servings of it!" As they got louder, Lithuania quietly began to panic while Poland and Seychelles took a moment to stare. Malaysia impatiently interceded, tucking her hand into the back of Cuba's collar and trying to drag him back across the table.
"Knock it off! He's had a hard time lately, Cuba, leave him alone—" Lithuania hastily began to distract America with quiet conversation while Poland toted Seychelles off with him to get some food chips for him and Liet, the pair talking a mile-a-minute. As America moaned and spilled all the details about his recent relationship drama (albeit lacking a few top-secret facts) to his concerned friend, the message Russia had instructed Lithuania to relay to China was unintentionally pushed far from the forefront of his thoughts.
: : :
The officer seated at his desk glanced up upon hearing his door slide open. Frowning, he looked back down to his work, waving his hand in dismissal of both of the CRs.
"England, if you have something that requires my attention, please make an appointment with my secretary. In a few minutes I have a meeting with the other officers which requires my immediate attention." To that, the man stood, picking up the flat metallic Filer from his desk, pressing a few buttons on the touchscreen as his attention diverted to that. As he made to pass them, England grabbed his arm at the elbow, grinning meanly when the man looked up, startled. When he registered the look, the officer glared.
"England, what is the meaning of—"
"Nice to know you're so out of the loop. Do you treat all of the Country Representatives holding Empires this way? So they don't feel 'special' and you can control them better?" Green eyes narrowed at him as the officer noticeably paled. He cast a furtive glance towards China, who offered him only a grim nod. Swallowing, he tried to force down the nervousness at being eye-to-eye with the infamous Britain. He'd heard stories of him, notes passed down through electronic journals, but to actually see an England that didn't know him was something else entirely. There was something in the man's eyes that England had never, ever shown. Bitterness instead of resignation; rebellion instead of obedience. Straightening, the officer cleared his throat and nodded, not bothering to try and dislodge Britain's hand from its grip on his arm. He'd been trained for this. He couldn't show weakness around him, for the Empire would just take advantage of it. Empires were other beings entirely, they had been around so long it was like they were immortal. Not to mention the knowledge that someone who had actually lived on Old Earth was standing before him was intimidating, to say the least.
"Y-Yes, well… thank you for informing me of your activated state, Britain." The Empire's brows furrowed downward, his eyes thinning in annoyance, and the officer found himself squeaking as his arm was grabbed tighter. "I-Is there anything else I need to know?" China stepped forward, then, casting a 'look' towards his fellow Empire and placing a lightly restraining hand on Britain's arm. Their eyes met with a spark of defiance, and for an instant the officer thought the air crackled with the force of it. After another moment Britain scoffed, though, and shoved the officer's arm back at him before going off to the wall to lean like a delinquent against it. After a beat he threw another glare over and snapped at China, who had been watching him quietly.
"Well, tell him the rest, I did my part." China sighed to himself before turning to the officer with a tired smile.
"Sir, Britain is not the only one who is activated."
"I-I that so?" Feeling a chill crawl up his neck, the officer cast a hurried look to the other Empire to confirm this, only to have his glance met with an unreadable stare. Fighting off another wave of unease, the officer took out his Filer from under his arm and with shaking fingers began to record what China was saying. "G-Go ahead, then."
"Gallia and Aztec are awake, as well. I also believe—" A small chirrup of a sound went off, then, and China frowned. He lifted a hand to press one of the buttons on the collar of his white Doctor bodysuit, speaking into it in a low tone. "Yes?" There was a pause, where the officer couldn't hear what was being said, although the thinning of China's mouth into a tight line couldn't mean anything good. China cut off the call soon enough, raising his eyes back to his superior.
"I apologize for the interruption, but Gallia has just confirmed that Inca and Tupi have been activated. With their assistance, he and Aztec are currently searching for Kaiser." Here China paused, and the officer looked up from his note-taking only to see the Doctor's gaze distanced towards the ground. When China spoke again, it was quieter, although just as business-like as before.
"Tsar will also be activated very soon." Out of the corner of his eye, the officer saw Britain stiffen from his place leaning against the wall, and so glanced over at him. He was rewarded with only a green-eyed glare, for his attention. The officer then hastily readjusted his gaze to the touchscreen, pressing 'Send to Database' and waited a moment while he received the results. Nodding quietly, he pressed a few more buttons on the handheld console, speaking evenly at the electronic device as it recorded his words in the utter silence of the room. Saving the file, he listened to it once to be sure of its accuracy before sending it to the queue line of the intercom system, filling in all the information of how long he wanted the announcement to play, and whether he wished to set it to repeat on a timer. A minute later, his voice echoed out of the speakers stationed around the entire ship.
"Teams B1, B2, G1, J2, M1, T1 and Q2, please report to your stations. Again, Teams B1, B2, G1, J2, M1, T1 and Q2, please report to your stations. That is all."
: : :
Their laughter echoed around the narrow hallways, causing not a few soldiers to glance at them awkwardly as they shoved their way through the crowds unavoidable in a ship such as this. They were quite the sight, actually. Aztec grinned at his friends, Gallia catching his eye and leaning in to kiss his cheek. The Spaniard drew him closer by way of the arm around his waist—which Gallia sighed into while contently shifting to 'rest' his hand just south of Aztec's waist. Aztec's other arm remained slung around Kaiser's shoulders, fingers tapping out a purposeful rhythm. A squawk of abrupt realization (morse code was such a handy skill, after all) from Kaiser caused Aztec to shift his grin to him, then, catching sight of wide red eyes and the shock lining his expression.
"Hey! You two already—? Ohne mich?" Gallia laughed in Kaiser's now-disgruntled face, his smooth accent gliding over the spark of mischief in his tone.
"Mais oui, I'm afraid we couldn't find you fast enough after cher Toni woke~" Red eyes narrowed in annoyance and Kaiser grumbled to himself, looking away and yet moving his hand to rest it on the small of Aztec's back.
"Halte den Mund, you know that's not my fault—" He trailed off, then, casting Gallia a suspicious look. Blue eyes blinked back at him, guilelessly, head tipping effeminately to the side. Kaiser snorted at the façade, sneering at his longtime friend and pointing his index finger (the one of the hand which was not suddenly warring for a spot on Aztec's ass) at Gallia's nose.
"Don't give me that!" Gallia snapped playfully at the extended digit, causing Kaiser to hiss and narrow his eyes before pinching the blond's cheek in retaliation! Aztec ignored this all, obliviously, instead taking in the familiar halls of the ship around him. He fought a small smile at how little had changed in fifty years. Well, of course, right? The ship was basically the same, as it had to be at least two hundred years before maintenance could start to insist they build an entirely new ship from the ground up.
"Scheisse!" Aztec blinked, returning his attention to his companions. "Did you guys manage to find a room somewhere, or is some stuffy old Upper scarred for life because you—" Gallia's laughter was sweet and merry (and Aztec cherished it for those exact qualities), and his fingers slid between Kaiser's to lock them together—still over Aztec's ass, of course. He cast a charming smile towards Kaiser, squeezing his hand gently with a fond look as they continued to walk. Aztec settled for sliding the arm that'd been over Kaiser's shoulders around his waist, humming a bit mindlessly as he fell into the old rhythm of being sandwiched between his most favorite people in the world.
"Non, non, nous—that is, we found a room that conveniently opens to my palm, and so used that—" Here the blond sighed, dramatically waving his free hand in the air with a flourish as his eyes slipped momentarily shut to add to the put-upon effect. "I simply do not understand why they insist upon giving these CRs different rooms every lifetime! It would make it so much easier on us if they merely assigned the same ones to the same CRs—" Kaiser snorted to that, nodding and leaning forward as they continued on.
"Not the first time I've thought that, Mensch!"
It couldn't quite be said that Aztec was bothered by the bickering-but-not-bickering going on around him—rather, it was so familiar and intimate, he didn't quite mind. There was something comforting in Gallia and Kaiser's presences, something eternally familiar that soothed a erratic part of his soul. Where that erratic part had come from, he didn't know. It made him full of chaotic, indiscriminate rage at the oddest times—but no one could tell, not even Kaiser (although Aztec had his suspicions about Gallia), because over the centuries he'd honed a rather impeccable mask.
And yet, that unstable part of him was always there, and he couldn't remember a time without it. It frustrated him, and only added to the anger building inside that he had no idea what the emotion stemmed from. Certainly, he had nothing that should spark his temper, so quickly. Aztec always thought he was rather slow to anger, really, and there was nothing he should be so upset about. Nothing that would invoke such blinding rage and an irrepressible need for violence. He'd never liked fighting, he thought. Wasn't it strange that he always seemed to be a wrong whisper away from losing control? Had he always been like this—always so angry, even if it was hidden beneath the surface? If he thought too much into this, his head tended to ache, and Aztec did try his best to only let that rage out in battle. The UM always seemed to approve of his battle results, anyway, so his extreme methods couldn't be that big of a problem. That was all that mattered.
"—oni?" The voice in his left ear and warm lips on his right cheek stirred him from his thoughts, and his gaze fell to the side—on Gallia, as the Frenchman drew back with a small smile. Aztec blinked, before quietly smothering down all the conflicting thoughts and tipped his head to the left to regard Kaiser, who was watching him carefully. It felt natural, so he smiled to reassure them. There was no emotion in his eyes, but that was better. It was either no emotion or anger, and his only friends did not deserve that anger.
"Lo siento. What were we talking about?" Kaiser's irritated huff and Gallia's shake of head almost made him want to look sheepish, but the urge shattered against the iron bar of his will. Any lack of viligence on his part could result in an 'incident'. A moment of honest emotion could end badly for everyone.
"Nothing of importance, mon ami. We were just discussing whose turn it was to be in the middle, as last time cher Gilbert tended to—"
"Hey, before that you skipped me twice, so I think I was entitled to—!"
Aztec let the familiar bickering lull him into absent thoughts once more, as they continued down the hallway to somewhere. He hadn't the faintest idea where they were going, but it was somewhere. Perhaps that room, from before? But Gallia always seemed to know those sort of things, anyway, so it probably didn't matter if Aztec didn't.
: : :
A finger attached to a blue-clad arm quietly shut off the bug its owner had been listening to. After that, there was a quick succession of taps on the smooth touchscreen, soon leading to a darkened video feed appearing on his Filer. Something shifted in the shadows, indicating a person. The outlines on the wall behind this person on the screen suggested a blue-and-white flag of some sort, its pattern indistinguishable in the bad lighting. The UM Technician's voice was quiet.
"It is as we suspected. The E-Units have begun to appear, once again. You were right, sir. Fifty years ago it must have happened, and it is happening again. I can secure the identities of at least two of the Units. Would you like me to bug them to find the others?" A hand waved in the obscurity, indicating a negative.
"No, no, we will wait and see. Perhaps this time will be our chance. After all these years, we may finally be able to co—" A shutting door down the hall caused the Technician to start, glancing behind himself with narrowed eyes in the dark room of his choice. Without taking his eyes from the shut door, the Technician tapped in a silent message on his Filer, to be sent in lieu of a risky whisper.
Someone is coming.
His companion on the other line fell silent, and there were two quiet beeps before the video feed disappeared, replaced by the default program which showed the statistics of his team's Navigator and Fighters, as well as the damage incurred on the Fighter units and Acer from their last battle. Someone burst in the doorway, waving his hand in the pattern to turn on the lights with the motion sensors, and when the light revealed his face the Technician knew.
"Where have you been, da ze!" The Fighter surged forward, grabbing his arm and starting to drag him out the door, babbling. "Ice and Beti are waiting at the Terry for you! Our celebratory lunch started fifteen minutes ago, and I still have to find Peru—"
"A-All right, all right, Korea! I'm coming, I'm coming, you don't need to pull!"
This was the Fighter, KOREAHANGUK9027-8332 (hailing from the cubicle known as South Korea). He was certainly not to be confused with KOREACHOSON6801-4966, of North Korea. The Technician's other team mates consisted of the Fighter ICELAND4809-5331, the Doctor TIBET1304-6599 and the Navigator PERU1153-2900. (No, the Technician had never dared wonder how "Tibet" had become "Beti"—it was simply better for everyone if no one questioned how Korea's mind worked.) However—much akin to the fact that ITALYVENEZIANO2173-8852 was usually referred to as Italy and ITALYROMANO4429-3657 as Romano—KOREAHANGUK9027-8332 was known to most as simply Korea, and KOREACHOSON6801-4966 as Choson. The reason behind such nicknames was quite simple—both Italy and Korea were much more social than Romano or Choson. As a result, many people did not bother with their longer (and harder-to-remember) 'official' names, and so this system had emerged.
But as he was dragged along by his team mate, the UM Technician could not help but feel relieved that Korea had just missed his little call. It would do no one any good if he was found out just as the Empires were re-emerging from their fifty-year sleep.
: : :
Romano was curled up in bed, under the covers, a TissUse clutched firmly in one hand. It was one of the earlier inventions, from when humanity had left Old Earth. With no trees to create paper, one company had gone so far as to make a reusable tissue that was always dry. It wasn't made of any disposable product, of course—it was just something that had to be washed, every now and then. When one blew into it, the microbes in the fabric latched onto the moisture and sanitized it, before then automatically drying. So one could use a TissUse over and over again—which was quite handy, at the moment.
For the past day or so, Romano had just stared at the wall in the apartment he shared with the other Italy. Everyone knew they looked a lot alike, but Romano just chalked it up to similarity in Italians (plenty of people back home in the Italy cubicle looked like them, after all). But there was something, somewhere, where they 'clicked'. Italy understood a lot of things Romano needed to say (although Veneziano couldn't exactly express that in words), but couldn't. They had met very young in their training, as North and South Italy were literally two halves of the same cubicle. In reality, they were divided down the middle, so it should have actually been 'East' and 'West' Italy, but tradition dictated the names of the countries (as well as what the people living in them identified as).
"Why?" His voice cracked, breaking the heavy silence in the room as Romano burrowed deeper into the electro-net bed. He bit his lip, bringing the TissUse up to his nose for another mighty blow as his eyes squeezed shut. Spain. "Why? What did I do? What did China mean when he said—how can you be gone? Bastard! I never gave you permission to—!"
"Romano?" He clamped his mouth shut, not having realized how loud his voice was getting. The voice was muffled, but it was definitely Veneziano's, so he curled up tighter. He was probably standing at the door, watching him, pitying him, secretly laughing at him because everyone always said he'd never deserved Spain, said he wasn't worth him and that Spain would leave him someday but he'd never thought it would quite be like this, because damn, he hadn't even recognized the look in Spain's eyes and it was like Spain couldn't even see him— Thin arms wrapped around him, a chest pressed to his hunched back from over the covers. Romano stiffened, then ducked his head down, grateful for the sheets that covered him from head to toe. He felt the form against him heave in a sigh, before a gentle whisper made it out. "Don't worry, ve? I told Germany to go talk to Spain and—"
"What!" At that Romano was up, and Veneziano flailed before tumbling off the bed with a whine, but Romano's wide eyes only stared at the top of Veneziano's head before the Northern Italian popped back up, smiling at him and climbing onto the bed, snagging his bare wrist with a chirp. (Romano's green bodysuit lay, long discarded, on the floor in a rumpled heap, leaving him in only a tank top and boxers.)
"Don't worry~! I told him to punch Spain's lights out if he doesn't agree to take you back." The only thing more disturbing about that comment was the innocent beam Veneziano delivered it with. His eyes were shrewd, though, and for a moment—just a moment, dammit!—Romano saw the sly face of the infamous Messenger peering out at him. He didn't allow himself to get nervous, but he did swallow before answering, looking away.
"O-Oh." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Veneziano quirk his head, inquisitively. His thumb gently rubbed against the inside of Romano's wrist.
"Do you not want Germany to punch Spain's lights out if he doesn't agree?" Romano went silent for a moment. He thought of Spain's smiles. Days, nights, weekends—months of separation when one or both of them were on missions. Years waiting to get out of the Academy so he could find Spain, again. Movie nights, when they would pull old films out of the Archives to watch. Nights when they'd just pull some old Spanish or Italian music out of the Audio Archives, to dance to. Neither of them understood the words, but they didn't have to to enjoy the rhythm, the moves, the adrenaline rush as they danced the Tango, Salsa, Mambo, or any other number of dances that seemed to come as naturally to them as breathing. Romano remembered Spain's eyes during those times—his gentle hands and loving words.
And then Romano thought of the indifference on Spain's face scarcely a day ago, and felt his heart break just that little bit more. He rolled back into the bed, pulling the blankets over his head again with a mumble. Spain deserved a black eye and more for making him hurt like this—if Romano kept telling himself that, he would eventually believe it. He had to. China knew, China saw. Spain was gone—or had his 'Spain' only been a mask? Romano's chest ached with the possibility that it had all been just a cruel, lengthy game.
"N-No, that's fine." He heard Veneziano tarry a moment more—hesitant to leave him alone—before standing and leaving the room. When he was gone, Romano allowed himself to reflect.
Veneziano was full of mysteries. And actually, no one said delivering Messages was easy, especially to people on the front lines or those playing spies deep in enemy territory. But Veneziano was one of the few who could infiltrate just about anywhere. People always mistook him for an idiot, and he certainly was none too smart when it came to some things, but people he understood. 'Exceptions' he understood. 'Bribes' he understood. Romano had been fortunate, actually, that his career test had determined him to be best-suited for a Fighter, not a Messenger. He couldn't do what Veneziano did, because he'd give himself away in a moment due to his temper. But Veneziano could do anything, pose as anyone, and do it completely naturally. Convincingly. If Romano had less faith in him, he would have been suspicious of Veneziano playing him, as well. But when he asked—half-accusing Veneziano of doing just that—the other Italian had just smiled brightly at him.
"I don't lie to people I trust. And we're both Italians, so we've got to stick together, vee~!"
Romano realized then that if there had still been an Italian mafia—Veneziano would have run it.
: : :
Germany wasn't exactly sure how he had come to be here. Specifically, that meant standing outside France's room in his blue Technician bodysuit, about to knock and try to talk some sense into Spain. And not that he had any intention of 'punching Spain's lights out' (as Italy had so insisted) if Spain didn't agree, but—he had never seen Romano so broken. There was something unsettling about the hot-tempered Italian Fighter reduced to a snotty lump on a bed—and no one deserved that. Even Italy, with all his flirting, never seriously tried to break any girl up with her boyfriend. He was too kind-hearted. And yet, sometimes Germany had to wonder if he was missing something about Italy. He always seemed so harmless, all the time, and to be slacking off instead of doing his job—but sometimes Italy would disappear for a while. Not long, usually just a day or two. And not that Germany understood about what Messengers had to do, really. Italy had only told him they delivered messages, and that was it. So simple. But Germany still found himself wondering how someone so innocent could be all right with violence done to another person—no matter the reason.
Perhaps it was the same reason Italy could still sneak into his apartment, even with a nine-digit security keypad replacing the regulation palm-scanners?
…No, he'd best not think into that, too much. He had a job to do. Squaring his shoulders, the Technician knocked.
: : :
As they left the office, Han's Com went off again and so he quietly answered it. This time, Britain was close enough behind him to hear bits and pieces of the conversation. He reached in front of him to grab Han's shoulder after the call ended, and the Chinese man turned his head to regard him, stoically. Britain's expression did not waver.
"It's Tsar, isn't it." Han attempted a smile, to that, but it came out more forced than anything. He shook off Britain's hand and turned, shoulders squaring off and voice notably cooling.
"It is. I'd best go greet him." After all, nothing positive would come from keeping the Russian waiting. A lifetime ago, Han had learned that particular lesson rather well. And so, in light of the dark memory lingering at the edges of the conversation, Britain kept any comments to himself. Han stepped away, and Britain did not follow. "It's been a while since you last ate, hasn't it? Perhaps you should visit the Cafeteria?" One brown eye peered over Han's shoulder at him, and Britain had to snort at the amused glint present there. Han couldn't be too scared of Tsar's impending presence if he was cracking jokes. Nevertheless, Britain turned his back to his fellow Empire, hands sliding into the pockets of his green Fighter bodysuit.
"I think not. Those food chips still taste like shit." He was aware his tone was bitter, but who cared? What I wouldn't give for a proper fish paste sandwich and a goddamn actual cigarette, not those piss-poor phony electric ones they try to pass off as— He glanced over his shoulder, scowling. "What room was this England in?" Britain didn't feel like dealing with Gallia, right now. Not with Aztec and Kaiser likely hanging around him. (They're probably having an orgy right about now, so he's certainly not thinking of you, his mind sneered jealously at him.) A quiet number was given in answer to his question, and without a word (to risk expressing his ill state of mind) Britain started to stroll away—even as he felt Han's eyes follow him down the hall. The Empire maneuvered himself around the secretaries and other Uppers, although most kept out of his way when they caught sight of his glowering face.
: : :
Sandwiched together in an escape hatch off of Floor 1 (the recreational floor), suspicious sounds breathed to life in the dark air. They had purposefully kept the lights off, so as not to draw attention to themselves, and the soundproofed enclosure was practically perfect for any illicit affairs. Aztec was pushed up against one of the seats, fingers curled tightly around the handles overhead while he watched with hazy eyes as Francis went down on him, again and again. A blue gaze sparkling with mischief twinkled up at him and he fought a smile which came out more as a surprised gasp as Gilbert's cock shoved itself deep within him from behind, yet again. The Spaniard's back arched, chest heaving as he panted and cool fingers wrapped around his dick, pumping slowly with the moisture given by that dirty French mouth. That same mouth was currently carving a pathway up to his neck, only to detour and nip at the underside of the bulging biceps helping him ride the achingly slow pace Gil had set.
"Does that feel good, mon cher~?" Endless affectionate French phrases slid into his ear, casting a musk over the entire hatch even as he heard the rumble of Gil's cackling resound from behind him. But something else was said, something Aztec didn't quite catch and soon Fran shifted, Aztec's vision going white for a moment as he trembled, feeling the Frenchman muffle a hiss into his bare chest. Slender arms slid past his ears and soon Fran had fallen into their rhythm—meeting Gil's thrusts and squeezing the life out of Aztec's pulsating organ now buried within him. More French and some German, meaningless words and utterances breathed into his neck and against his shoulder blades as they moved together, Fran's fingers buried in Aztec's hair, arms brushing the strained biceps that kept Aztec from completely resting his weight on Gil below. Soon, too soon—for it had been far too long—that moment fled as his world exploded in white, Aztec unseeing as Gilbert's hand sneaked around his waist and pumped Francis off to join them in oblivion. They rode the last waves of completion with jerky, unattractive movements and frenzied attempts to keep that pleasure at its peak, but soon it tapered off and Aztec's stiff and shaking hands at last relinquished the handlebars overhead, leaving the trio to collapse in a boneless, panting heap as their hearts desperately fought to slow down from that high.
There was a knock from the other side of the deflowered escape hatch's door, and Gallia raised his head wearily, smirking softly when he spied what lay beyond the small circular window of clear plastic. He lolled his head back, whispering breathlessly to Kaiser and the German started cackling again, the vibrations shaking Aztec from his not-doze, causing his eyes to creak open. He lifted his gaze to the blue one beside him in silent question, and Gallia grinned at him, leaning in to kiss his nose with a conspiratorial whisper.
"Seems the calvary's here to collect us, Toni~" Upon seeing that the inhabitants of the sullied escape hatch were making no move to greet them, the door was shoved open (it hadn't been locked, anyway) and an officer—the glinting gold boots, gold snaps and gold 'UNITED MILITARY' slogan over his right pectoral identified him as such—strode purposefully in. His purple bodysuit was shadowed oddly with the light from the hall, but Aztec could still spy others waiting behind him. (Most of them weren't officers—the black boots, black snaps and white 'UNITED MILITARY' slogan on their chests rather clearly gave away their station.) The man stood as straight and tall as the small room would allow, the very picture of professionalism, and Aztec absently placed his nationality in the back of his mind—German.
"0001—Kaiser—this is Officer Schwartz, reporting for duty." Another officer stepped out from behind him, bowing neatly with an arm over his waist and seeming to only raise his brows (more in amusement than chagrin, Aztec noted) at the trio's current state of undress. The Spaniard closed his eyes. Too obviously, this one was French.
"0012—Gallia—I am Officer Dumont, and will be your escort from now on, if you please." And of course, that only left—
"0013—Aztec—Officer Gutierez is at your service!" —the Spanish one. Aztec sighed softly against Gallia's cheek, peering ill-temperedly up at him. The other Empire smiled apologetically down at him, granting Aztec an open-mouthed kiss and soothing him with a bit of murmured French (that the officers and the two soldiers belonging to each could not understand, of course) as he began to pull away.
"It's fine, it's fine, but I suppose our fun will be cut short, from now on—" Kaiser snorted, shoving Aztec lightly so as to clamber out from beneath him, irate German gracing his tone.
"Goddamn Military, setting these kids on us like we're the ones who need babysitters—"
Aztec just closed his eyes (with a rage-controlling exhale) and found himself unable to disagree.
: : :
CHINA6770-8388 watched Britain go with an unidentifiable look on his face. Just like Aztec and Britain had their disputes, so too did he and Britain. It seemed the Englishman was simply unable to get along with anyone for an extended period of time—except for Gallia, of course. The corner of Han's mouth tightened, and he quickly headed off to the Landing Bay. There were so few of them left, they had to protect one another. No one wanted what had happened to Antonio and Lovino to happen to them. And Antonio had been such a cheerful person before—well, what was he doing? Tsar was waiting.
Closing his eyes briefly, China forced the genuine smiles of RUSSIA6640-3975 from his mind. Even at thirty-three—four years younger than his current body's age—the Fighter had still managed to exude an aura of childlike naivete and innocence. That day he had left England's lunch table to join Russia's was with a mix of dread, for Han remembered too well what Tsar was like. But he had been proved wrong, hadn't he? And then he had had to command Russia to activate himself… Ah.
His eyes opened, once more. He still had work to do. Pressing the button of the Com disguised as one of his collar snaps, Han directed the call and soon heard a low beeping as it went through. Moments later, a familiar voice picked up.
"Eh, China? Something wrong?" He did not allow himself a calming breath. It was not needed, as his voice was quick and cool.
"We need 19. Get yourself into your FS, I will meet you in the Landing Bay." There was silence on the other end, then—
"H-How did you know I am—" China's tone turned crisp. He had no time for this!
"Surely your superior informed you of the details of your activation! Get yourself to your FS, and I will meet you in the Landing Bay. That is all you have to do." More silence. China's tone pressed deeper into annoyance. "TURKEY5597-0813, do I need to inform your superior of insubordination and thus initiate Sequence 483, which will result in you being forcibly activated, or—"
"N-No! China, no… I-I'll be there. I'll do it." The call trailed off into a series of low beeps, meaning Turkey had disconnected. Han did so himself, at last allowing a sigh to break through. He did not like playing it like this, but what choice did he have? As soon as the UM found that his memories traveled from lifetime to lifetime—not just Wang Yao's, no, but every CHINA clone-life he had lived—without needing any activation, they had sought to try and prevent it from happening. (Almost like what they had done with Antonio, his mind whispered to him.) But they were unsuccessful. If they erased his memories upon birth of his previous life as a CHINA, Yao's memories were erased, too. No amount of attempted activations after that would result in Yao emerging. And with Yao's memories erased, the UM did not have Han's Empire abilites at their disposal. That was not a boon they were willing to part with.
And so, China remembered everything. He was not only 'Wang Yao' or 'the Han Empire', but also an uncountable number of CHINA CRs. He lived, and he saw, and he noted how differently each clone-life of a CR was led. He had served as a Doctor for hundreds of years, even though his current body was only thirty-seven. He remembered every RUSSIA, every ENGLAND, every FRANCE, AMERICA, JAPAN, INDIA… The list was endless. He remembered them all, and he remembered being told as far back as he could remember that his memories were a mix of countless lives as well as culture. China did not go through the rigorous mental training most of his fellow CRs went through. His mind was already full enough as it was, but he did go through standard training at the Academy. It was tedious, staying in one place for nine years and re-learning theories and practical applications he had perfected decades ago, but at the very least he always received top marks (even when he didn't study).
A few times he had experimented, had tried to branch out into other fields—Technician, Navigator, anything—but the UM was steadfast in keeping him on the mothership as a Doctor, 'safe and sound' as they liked to say. They had even chastised him for 'daring to be so selfish as to deny your patients the benefit of your expertise in attempting to seek a new assignment'! As a result, no CHINA CR was ever assigned to any team or ever got to go into any battles. No, every CHINA only kept the beds warm in the Sick Bay (among other uses, electro-net furniture could also sustain a certain set temperature) and attended to any injuries CRs or the regular soldiers sustained in either battle or training. The only time he was sent out was with his Empire team, when they were needed in battle. It appeared that time would soon be upon them. A wan smile wormed its way onto Yao's face as he strode through the halls, distractedly tossing his ponytail over his shoulder as cold sweat lined his brow. But no matter the boredom from those centuries of work as a Doctor, no matter the chaos in his mind from too many lives lived, no matter how 'useless' his Empire ability seemed in light of Britain's and Tsar's and even Aztec's—he would still wildly prefer that life as opposed to having to deal with Ivan again.
Ivan's mind had fractured, around the third or fourth time he was activated as an Empire. He wasn't mentally stable enough to stand the added stress of what his existence had become. And so, some time ago it had become rather obvious—in order to limit the negative impact on his brain, it had become split and simplified. The lighter side only saw Yao, and the darker side only wanted destruction.
Thirty-three years of borrowed time was coming to an end. It was longer than some lifetimes past.
And yet, it always seemed that Yao could never be completely prepared.
: : :
There were bright lights above him. Antonio blinked, squinting. He felt little suction cups against his scalp, and he was lying on a metal table, his arms and legs pinned down with straps. Why was he here, again? He winced as he adjusted himself as best he could, the laser-burns wrapped in bandages on his back not approving of the shift.
Antonio hoped Lovi was all right! The last Toni had seen of Lovi (after he'd saved him from that clumsy stumble into the line of laser-fire during a training session) was the guards directing him to his quarters before one stuck a sedating needle in his arm, and after that he couldn't remember anything—
A comment played out over the intercom in the white room around him, interrupting his thoughts.
"Subject Fernandez, Antonio Carriedo." He perked up at that, casting a smile up at ceiling, towards the source of the disembodied voice.
"Ah, hola~!" He tried to go on, but was crisply interrupted.
"Tell us all you know about the Vargas brothers, Feliciano and—"
"Lovi?" The Spaniard's brows furrowed, for a moment. It wasn't like the IRI to take such an interest in how everyone related to each other. They were more concerned with finding "Empire" subjects as well as training the "Country" subjects (like him), than social information. Why did it matter so much, now? But a moment later—
"That was an order." Antonio bit his lip, and looked off to the side. The cords of the monitors attached to his scalp shifted with the slight movement. He could refuse, but he'd been on the receiving end of too much punishment, already. For some reason, it was always about Lovi. It couldn't hurt not to fight them on this, right? It wasn't as though they could do anything about how he felt for Lovi, no matter how clear it was that they didn't like it. Hey, and maybe when the IRI finally let them go he and Lovi could start properly dating, instead of just—!
"Subject Fernandez."
"E-Está bien…" Unintentionally, the order had called up endless images of Lovi, and now Antonio allowed them to blossom in his mind fully. He had to smile at that adorable scowl—but a moment later he winced, arms jerking to try and hold his head at the burning sensation prickling from some small spot inside his skull. They didn't succeed, belted down at his sides as they were. He blinked away a few surprised tears lingering at the edges of his eyes, mind a tad fuzzy when the pain trickled away moments later and the intercom crackled to life, once again.
"We apologize. That is an unfortunate after-effect of this test. It is harmless." Antonio tried to nod, but it called forth another spark of discomfort so he stopped. The voice insisted, however, that he carry on. And so he did, summoning his courage and squeezing his eyes shut so as to better visualize and remember all he could, about Feli and Lovi.
"W-Well, Lovi and Feli are twins—and from Italy, although they didn't grow up or even live together until a few years ago when Lovi's papa died and he went to live with his mama and Feli—and Lovi's brow makes this cute little 'v' when he scowls—" They were his dearest memories, he held them close to his heart and cherished every rare smile he could coax from Lovi's eternally downturned lips. Something in his chest fluttered at the mental sight of all those rarities, and he almost didn't mind the much-more-intense burning which bled through his mind as he let the mental images play. As long as he could think of Lovi, he would be all right.
Little did Antonio realize that those memories were being systematically deleted even as he recalled them. The brain monitors attached to his scalp read which parts of the brain were active when he called forth memories concerning the Vargas brothers, and these sites were neatly eliminated by the IRI. By the time Antonio woke again—in a hospital bed, and soon to be visited by Gilbert and Francis—all thoughts of those two Italians had been utterly purged from his mind. It was as though they never existed, and were he to meet them there would be no recognition.
Not many weeks after this, Antonio would develop an ability of Empire class—thus cementing his place in the IRI's history as Empire0013 and "Aztec".
: : :
I hope you all liked that? I did rather enjoy a few scenes in here, myself. :3
Reviews would be lovely—if you happen to have the time—but thanks for reading, anyway~! -Fox
