myahahahahahaha

I don't own Hetalia.


When France came to, the first thing that he noticed was the cold. He was wearing nothing, but there was something over him, covering his face as well. Dim light filtered through, and he could hear a soft murmuring a small distance away, as well as the sound of typing.

When he tried to move, pain shot through his body, bones protesting and stiff, as well as a blinding pain blooming in his head. He groaned, causing the quiet noises from the other end of the room to cease, replaced with the sound of something being dropped and footsteps.

The sheet over his face was pulled back, and the white light overhead was a shock.

France managed to turn his head, taking in the surroundings and the stranger, a scared looking young man dressed in medical clothing, who at this moment decided to faint.

Now that the only other presence in the room was unconscious, he could focus on where he exactly was. Something clicked... This was a morgue.

Why... why was he in a morgue? What did he last remember? ...That beautiful and mysterious woman... She had known his name, but what had happened after that? He must have been seriously injured in some way, causing his body to shut down to heal...

He tried to get up, still stiff, and walked round the man slumped to the floor to the computer, hoping what he had been typing would shed some light on what had happened.

Name of Deceased: Unknown, possibly Francis Bonnefoy

Gender: Male

Age: Unknown

Cause of death: Bullet wound to the head, no other injuries present

A bullet... Of course. She was the distraction, the toying with her hairband a signal to the sniper waiting above. He had let his guard down, and they had found him.

And now he was here. He touched his forehead, feeling the blood that had dried. He needed to get out, before someone else found out the 'dead' had risen.


England had called Germany soon afterwards about their encounter with the mysterious man who had known his name. He had kept the details of Scotland's pub adventure quiet: it was stupid of him, but nothing would come from getting his brother in further trouble. Germany had promised to tell everyone of this further development, but England had said he would call France himself. They needed to talk.

He was just about to, when the TV in the background caught his attention. "...and some further details on the Paris shooting just in, police have released more information on what happened this morning. The victim, who has not been formally identified, is believed to have been shot by a sniper from a nearby building, and was the sole casualty. The shooting took place in front of many witnesses, and the victim has been described as a blond male, with shoulder length hair and stubble. No suspects have been identified as of yet. More on this story as it develops."

...the person that was described sounded worryingly like France.

With a slight urgency, England dialed France's number.

"Francis? You there?"

"... No, I'm sorry, this isn't. Are you family or a friend?"

Shit. Ohshitohshitohshit. "I'm... A friend. Is everything alright? Who am I speaking to?

"I work for the French National Police. Can ask what your name is?"

"...Arthur Kirkland. What's happened to Francis?"

"...I'm sorry, he was shot and killed this morning in Paris. Can you just confirm what your friends name was?"

"Francis Bonnefoy. ...this is a matter of global security, I need someone I can trust with such matters, now."

"...Okay." There was silence for a moment, before someone else spoke. "This is Gabriel Barrand, head of the investigation into your friends death. What do you mean about global security?"


France had salvaged his trousers, but his shirt was soaked in his own blood and unwearable. His hair and face too were covered in blood, and he had had to wash it off in a nearby sink. Tying his hair back with a hair band he had in his pocket, he stole the zip-up jacket that was hung up in an adjoining locker room that perhaps belonged to the still unconscious man, and set off into the empty corridor.

He wandered through the almost deserted corridors, looking for signs, darting behind corners when someone went by. As far as he could tell, this wasn't a hospital, and this was confirmed when he saw a logo for the French police. He hid again, as two officers went by talking about what he assumed was his shooting.

He climbed some stairs, and the floor above was much busier. He was surprised no one had noticed him yet, perhaps he should have a word with someone about security afterwards, but right now he was thankful. He was about to go through another corridor when someone entered an office a little way away from him, holding the door open. "Sir... The body from the morgue has vanished."

"...What? What do you mean vanished?!"

"...The mortician swears that the corpse came back to life."

"That's absurd-"

He crept closer, seeing that the man was holding a mobile, his mobile to be precise, and he appeared to be talking to someone on it.

"You keep going on about global security, but I want to know what the hell is going on! Someone has been shot, and now that person has apparently walked out of the morgue! Who the hell are you Monsieur Kirkland? Who the hell is Francis Bonnefoy?"

Arthur? He supposed there was no better time for this and no other sensible way out of here. "I'm Francis Bonnefoy." He gently pushed his way past the messenger, shutting the door on him, and grabbed the phone from the man. "Arthur, don't worry, I'm fine."

"Francis? Thank god! What the hell happened?"

"I was shot. A woman posed as a tourist to distract me so the sniper could get a clear hit. She knew-"

"What the hell is going on? You were dead!-"

"Shut up, don't make me call the President after this. As I was saying, she knew my name."

"...We're all in grave danger. Last night, someone stopped me and Iain and they knew my name as well, and now you've been shot. Let me call Germany; you can call your boss."

"Sounds good. Stay safe, Arthur."

He hung up, and the head of the police took this as a sign to start babbling again. "You were a corpse! How the hell are you alive? Who are you? Is... Is that blood?-"

"Please, be quiet. I'm... The President will explain."

This seemed to have silenced him, questions no doubt echoing in his head. He dialled the new number on his mobile, and was thankful when he heard the voice on the other end. "Bonjour Francis, what is it you need?"

"I've no doubt you've heard about the shooting this morning. Unfortunately, I was the victim."

"...ah."

"Oui, and now I'm in the office of the man in charge of my murder investigation and he wants answers."

"...Okay, put him on the phone."

He passed the mobile to the man. "The President wants to speak to you."

He looked scared, but he accepted it. "...Bonjour? ...oui... ...Gabriel Barrand... ...C'est impossible... Oui... ...au revoir..." He handed the phone back.

"I told him about you and that he needs to wrap up the investigation, something that we'll help him with. We'll take care of things, but you need to lie low."

"I was going to anyway... Any recommendations on what I should do?"

"Talk to the man, his name's Gabriel Barrand by the way, and answer his questions. He'll help you."

"Okay, understood. Au revoir."

He turned to Gabriel, who looked more than a little shaken. "You're... France? How? What...?"

"...oui. I'm what's known as a nation, and almost every country in the world has one. Our lives are tied to our people and countries, and we're essentially immortal, hence that fact that I've 'risen from the dead'"

"I... Wow... How old are you?"

"Hmm, I've lost track. Hundreds of years old, at least."

"...Why were you shot? Who wants you dead?"

"Recently, a collection of photos of us was posted to the internet. People are finding out about us, and what we've always feared is starting to happen. Some people, they want revenge, for things that were hundreds of years ago and out of our control." France sighed. " We're as much the pawns of fate as any other person... Sometimes I wish I was just 'any other person'..."

He closed his eyes, sighing again, imagining.

"I need to hide until my flight to an emergency meeting with the other nations, can you help me? And, maybe you could get me a new shirt? The mortician probably wants this jacket back."


America had woken up the way he usually did when he wasn't needed in the morning: late, and only as a result of outside interference. The interference in this case was the phone, ringing persistently. Groaning, he hauled himself out of bed and answered it. "H...hello? Who's... -yawn- ...calling?"

"Alfred, it's the head of the CIA, we have a problem."


SERIOUS WITH A VENGENCE

MYAHAHAHAHA

IM EVIL

DAMN AM I LOVING WRITING THIS AND TORTURING YOU IN THE PROCESS.

*SHIMMIES OUT*