Chapter 7
It was dark and he was scared.
The last he'd seen of the light, it had been peeking through the trees, swirling around him all brown and green and huge.
But that had only been for a moment, between when they dragged him out of the car and when they got him into there.
He didn't know where there was. They assured him that everything would be fine once they got him there. That he had been there before. That once they were finished with whatever they had planned for him there, he could go home.
They also kept calling him "Mr. Jones".
He wanted to shout at them, tell them that it wasn't his name. He was Matthew Williams, the nation of Canada. He only looked like America, they weren't the same at all!
But whatever they shot him up with when they tackled him in America's kitchen was really strong. One needle prick and he couldn't kick, couldn't bite, couldn't scream, couldn't run.
Almost couldn't think.
And so they carried him in, ignoring his little twitches and whimpers. And it was cool and it was dark and they took him through room after room and he still couldn't move.
Now he was lying on a hospital bed and he still couldn't move. He was falling backwards, staring up at the cold, cold, ceiling. Dark shapes were around him, leaning over his face like demons or doctors, he wasn't sure which. They had surgical masks that looked likes smiles and when they touched his skin, their hands were smooth and cool and like plastic.
They took off his glasses, making fuzzy promises that they'd be nearby for when he was done.
They took off his shirt, leaving his skin to shiver.
His arms feel weightless, and he realizes that they have taken his hands in theirs. There is a slight pressure on his wrists, which becomes tighter when he flexes them ever so slightly. The same thing happens to his ankles. They promise him that it's for his own good, these restraints, and that it's just so he won't hurt himself. But why? He still can't move.
He was breathing faster. Faster. Faster. His fingers were twitching. He wanted to cry, but there were only little gasps.
Around his head, out of the corners of his eyes, he could see the dark shapes moving. They were mechanical and efficient, moving things this way and that. One was wheeling something towards him, and an arm stretched over his head. An arm with something like a cord or tube trailing with it.
By the time he realized, it was too late. He managed a "No!" so weak and dusty, but there was already a pinch and a pain in his arm.
No.
World was slipping away.
Had to hold on.
Back of his mind, he felt headphones clamped over his ears. That too faded, and it was like those plastic cups were another part of his head.
Somewhere in the room, in the world, there was a click.
America, all is well.
His limbs were heavy. His eyelids wouldn't stay open. His mouth could be hanging open, but he couldn't be sure.
America, all is well.
Who is speaking? He can't tell. They're in his head, and won't come out. But they're wrong, wrong, wrong.
America, all is well.
He is Canada!
America, all is well.
He is CANADA!
America, all is well.
He is... who?
America, all is well.
He is America? No? He is...?
It all goes dark, and he is nothing.
"This is kidnapping! I'm gonna tell my boss about this, 'ya bastard, see if I don't! Let me up, China, I'm gonna kill him!"
Cuba had yet to sit up from America's sofa, but it was not for lack of trying. China was pressing down on his shoulders, using every bit of his four thousand years of strength, and it was all he could do to keep him there. Such was Cuba's desire to get up and rip his rival a new one.
"You will remain where you are, sir," said England. He had positioned himself between Cuba and America (who was collapsed in a chair) in case China was unable to restrain the angry island nation. "No one is killing anyone, at least until we figure out what happened."
Behind him, England heard America mumble something that sounded sarcastic. He had hardly reacted to finding out that a nation he dubbed "the cigar-smoking Commie" was in his living room, nor had he responded to the increasingly colorful threats Cuba had been spouting since he came to.
"Right," said England, when Cuba paused in his ranting to catch his breath. "Let us get our stories sorted out and start from the beginning. Cuba, what do you remember happening when you showed up here?"
"Eh? I…um…that's kind of fuzzy," said Cuba, rubbing his head. "I think someone gave me a good whack on the noggin."
England resisted the urge to beat his own head against the nearest wall. Fantastic. America couldn't remember anything, China came to late to see anything, Kumajiro missed the kidnapping, and now Cuba couldn't remember. Five parties involved and they still weren't going to be able to figure out what happened! "Let's start slowly then," he said, fighting to keep his eye from twitching. Why did you come to America's house in the first place?"
"I didn't mean to come to that idiot's place!" Cuba snapped. "I was on my way to visit Canada!"
At the sound of his other little brother's name, England's heart skipped a beat. "And you got lost, did you?"
"As if! Canada was visiting his stupid brother, and we were gonna meet up after."
"And your proof of this?"
Cuba pulled out his cell phone, flipped it open, and began punching numbers. He tossed it to England without a word. On the screen was a log of the text messages still in his inbox, along with the times they were sent. The most recent ones - ones sent from Canada, discussing getting ice cream later - were timed as being sent not long before England got his.
"Alright then," said England, satisfied that Cuba was telling the truth. "Can you remember anything at all before you were hit on the head?"
Cuba screwed his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead. "Lessee...I don't think I made it into the house..."
"Not before I got here, aru," grumbled China. "I can promise you that. I think I threw out my back, aru."
"Wait, I'm gettin' it!" Cuba shouted, ignoring or not hearing China's comment. "There was this black car in the driveway, and these two dudes in these suits, 'n they were...were..."
There was the creak of mattress springs, as America jumped to his feet. He nearly fell over, and had to be supported by England. "What were they doing?" he asked, looking frightened. "Tell me!"
"I don't hafta tell you anything, you pig!" snapped Cuba. "How about instead of ordering me around, you try to not be a pain in the -"
"FOCUS!" England roared.
The two bickering nations shut up and stared at him.
"That's better," England growled, glaring at them. "Cuba, finish your story. America, ask questions when he's done. Get on with it!"
Still glowering at America, Cuba continued. "Those men in the black suits, they had Canada with them. He looked like he was asleep or something. I thought he was America at first and I got out of the car to scream - well, never mind that now. Point is, when I got close enough, I saw it was Canada they had. I told 'em to put my buddy down and explain, and they tried to feed me some bull about how he was just going for -"
"His next therapy session to ease growing anxiety over the status of the economy," finished America.
Everyone in the room stared at him. He was staring forward, taking deep breaths and clearly fighting panic.
"But they couldn't have," America continued, speaking to the wall on the far side of the room, and not to any of the nations around him. "They couldn't have. They promised it was for me, so why take someone else? It doesn't make sense."
"America?" asked England, trying to get the nation's attention. When that didn't work, he leaned over and grabbed America by the wrist. "America! Snap out of it!"
America yelped and snatched his wrist away. "That hurt," he said, looking accusingly at England.
"Belt up!" said England, using irritability to mask the panic welling up inside of him. "Do you remember something? Do you think you know who took Canada? Speak, boy!"
"But it can't be them!"
"Alright, well who can't it be?"
America cringed, and England could just imagine the debate going on in the boy's head. He must have been sworn to secrecy on this by someone pretty high up in his government. To tell, or not to tell? Break his promise, or rescue his brother?
And then, he spilled. Not surprising really. If he were to choose between a promise and his brother, Canada would win, any day.
"They are federal employees," said America very quickly, as if worried that he'd be attacked for what he was about to say. "They've been visiting my place every other day, for the past three weeks. I think. It's been kind of hard to keep track of time, since they started."
"What did they start?" asked England, fighting to keep his voice steady.
"You know things haven't been doing too good around my place, right? Well, my boss knew how stressed I get during these times. So the head of the CIA - those government people who have that secret stuff they do - talked to him and had it arranged with me that I'd get these therapy sessions. I'd be fixed up, and that might help the country's situation improve."
"You know it doesn't work like that, don't you, aru?" China softly asked.
America turned to him, still not able to look China in the eye. "I...thought it might not be. But I wanted to try it. I had never tried something like that, so it could have worked. And if it made my people happier, why wouldn't I try it?"
England had been tempted to point out that it obviously wasn't working, but bit his tongue. Neither the time nor the place. He could pick on the poor lad when Canada was rescued and America was in his right mind.
"Thank you, America," he said. "This is great news."
"Great news that Canada was kidnapped by strange men, aru?"
"No, that America was able to identify the kidnappers, you git!"
"But I don't get it!" insisted America. He began rocking back and forth in his chair, looking completely lost. "They know what they're doing! They're careful! They should only take me!"
"But you and Canada look almost exactly the same!" England said. "People have mistaken him for you before. It's happened countless times!"
America said nothing to this, but leaned back in his chair. He still looked troubled.
Englaned sighed and continued. Keep calm and carry on and all that. "Cuba, did you see which way the car went?"
"Ehhhh, sorry. Nope." Cuba rubbed his forehead and looked sheepishly at the ceiling. "I'd been trying to say earlier, when I saw those goons kidnapping my buddy, I told them to shove their excuses where the sun don't shine and let Canada go. That was when one of 'em snuck up behind me and whacked me on the head."
"And you passed out and didn't see where they went, aru?"
"Of course I didn't pass out from that," snorted Cuba. "Give me some credit! I passed out after the bastard snuck up behind me and shot me with some kind of a tranquilizer."
"But the part where you passed out and lost any leads on where Canada went is the same." England was ready to scream in frustration, but managed to hold it in. "Right. We have no idea where Canada was taken, and he is having God-knows-what done to him at this very moment. Does anyone have any ideas that might work? Anyone at all?"
There was a pause, and then Kumajiro raised his paw. "I can sniff," he suggested.
