It's finally the weekend! YES! Oh yeah, and I found the disclaimer.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or its contents.
Enjoy!
Heracles loved cats.
He owned a couple hundred of them all at once. Even the alley cats he'd unofficially adopted.
And so, when he spotted a cat licking its paws outside his window, he was immediately distracted. He reached out to stroke its orange coat, but the feline leaped away at the last second and descended onto a landing nearby.
The Grecian was one of the few nations that managed to take the first floor of the hotel. He liked solid ground. He'd been around it most of his life, digging up old remnants and memories of his late mother.
However beautiful the sky was, he preferred the earth. And he noted with content that the same blue skies had not changed since when his dear mother ruled . . .
He was getting ahead of himself again. Philosophy tended to sidetrack you at the worst moments.
Heracles poked his head out the open window. He understood that there was a lockdown, but he couldn't sleep with all the high tension zipping around. He needed some clear air desperately.
Maybe he could get out for a bit. Just a little while. He wanted to be with his beloved cats.
He would come back later, of course. He knew the dangers. Back then, at the meeting, he'd been half-awake when South Italy had burst into the room. It was only thirty minutes later had he processed what was really going on.
Antonio . . . has been attacked . . .
Heracles crawled out the window and jumped down onto the pavement below. To the right, he saw the orange cat duck behind a corner. The Grecian followed its trail, calling to it every so often.
"Don't go," he told it quietly. "It's bedtime, you know. You shouldn't be . . . walking around."
As he turned the corner, a dark puddle of liquid caught his eye. It leaked towards his feet, and Heracles lifted his shoe, studying the plip-plip of the liquid falling onto the pavement.
It was dark, and he couldn't see very well, but judging from opacity of the fluid, it couldn't have been water. Maybe oil from a broken gas tank while it was being transported?
His eyes travelled upwards.
And then his heart stopped.
Lying in the same pool of dark liquid flowing towards his feet, was the beautiful orange tabby, its former glistening coat smeared with—
Oh, God.
"No," he said.
Blood. The tabby was lying in a pool of blood.
It wasn't moving, and it wasn't breathing. Heracles found the gears in his ever-flowing head of ideas grind to a halt.
A shadow flitted behind him. Heracles turned as his peripherals caught the movement on the wall to his left.
It happened so . . . so fast. He was only a few steps behind the cat, and not even a second later, it was attacked. By the time he'd reached the corner, the blood had already flowed from the animal to his feet. That meant that whatever killed it was fast and able.
Heracles had a really bad feeling about this.
There was a lockdown for a reason, and now he was to pay for it.
Heracles glanced over his shoulder, but for some reason, what he saw didn't really surprise him.
A blank, eyeless face loomed down at him, its jagged mouth dripping with blood.
"Are you absolutely sure?" Ludwig asked Alfred. "You could be seeing things."
"I'm positive," said the American. "I know what I saw. I know what I felt. It's a magical spell, and whoever used it knows everything that's going on. All the research you did, everything we discussed . . . They know."
Lovino broke out into a cursing fest, rage-quitting in Italian while Feliciano tried to calm him down.
Gilbert appeared thoughtful.
"I think this could work out in our favour," he said.
"Are you mad?" Ludwig blurted out. "This is terrible!"
"Bruder, I suggested telling the others from the beginning. I may not act like it, but I am your older brother, and I know better than you do. It's a good thing that someone knows."
"What if it's not a nation? We'd be done for!"
"What regular mortal knows magic, hmm? It could be just one of England's brothers playing a prank on us. You know them. They never do anything and just go to the tavern to drink their asses off."
"It could be Arthur," said Alfred. "I mean, it is his spell, and he's the one that told me about it."
"No, really," said Ludwig. "Who is it really?"
"I'm serious."
"Okay, fine, so it's a nation," said Lovino, tossing his words into the air and pacing aimlessly around the room. He had finally settled down, though it seemed like he was looking for the nearest person to strangle. "So what? It's not a big deal, right? If they know, they can help out. So why . . . why do I feel like things are going to get worse?"
"I have the same feeling," said Feliciano. "We don't know who's found out exactly. It could be Arthur, it could be another nation that has magical capabilities. Either way, we can't control whether they want to show themselves to us or not."
"So what? We wait it out?" said Alfred. "That doesn't sound productive to me."
"We'll have to continue with what we're doing at the moment. And that's finding Greece so we can have a chat with him."
"Whoever knows will tell everyone else. Pretty soon we'll have people coming to us demanding to know what's going on." Ludwig glanced around the room, meeting eyes with his fellow nations. "Can you all handle the pressure?"
"We will have to," said Gilbert.
"I don't think there are other options," Feliciano spoke.
Lovino scowled, arms crossed. Alfred glared at the opposite wall, as if whoever had been watching was still there, and he was sending a thousand curses in their direction.
"So I guess we have a plan now," said Lovino. "Then we best get going. We don't have all night, and when day comes, the other nations will become more aware."
"We also can't afford to miss any of the meetings," Ludwig added. "They are still a priority."
"We should check on Antonio, see how Matthew is doing with his treatment," suggested Feliciano.
Lovino was at the bedroom door and opening it before anyone could react. He stepped through and Alfred followed afterwards.
Antonio was lying, sleeping soundly, in the bed, his torso bare and bandaged up. His breathing had evened out drastically and was not the raggedy sounding wheeze it had been back at his apartment. Matthew was sitting fast asleep next to him, his head lying atop the First Aid Kit he'd brought in to treat Antonio.
"That can't be comfortable," Gilbert noted, looking over their heads on his tippy-toes.
"I guess the two of them will be staying here," Ludwig sighed. "Less people the better, I suppose."
"I'm rather inclined to stay," Lovino muttered.
"They'll be fine." Alfred moved over to his brother and placed his favourite gun into Matthew's hand. "If anything goes wrong . . . Well, when he sees this, he'll know what to do."
"The creature is fast, if it could bypass Antonio so easily."
Alfred turned and smirked. "Have you forgotten? My brother is a freakin' ninja. He's capable, all right. Now we ought to get going. Lock the door."
Lovino stood frozen in his place. Feliciano laid a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder, but unlike the usual, Lovino didn't shrug it off.
"Antonio will be fine," he said. "I'm sure of it."
Lovino remained silent for an instant, and then released a shuddering breath, all the tension from the day's frustration and concerns being lifted from his body. He nodded in acceptance.
"All right. Let's go."
The Italian brothers moved off, closing the door, and joining the rest of the nations. The last person out locked the hotel suite door, and then together they all made their way down the hallway, towards the elevators.
It was time to get some business underway.
Arthur and Francis were seated around a small coffee table, both too absorbed in their thinking to pay attention to the other.
Francis busied himself with stirring a cup of tea in a trance-like state, the spoon going around in circles over and over again. Although, he failed to notice that the beverage had gone cold a long time ago.
Arthur was gripping his chin with a hand, his elbow leaning against the arm of the chair as his leg bounced up and down impatiently.
He glared at the round surface of the table and oddly recalled a distant memory of the past. He didn't know why he conjured up this memory, but it replayed in his head, the scene from whence he was known as King Arthur, sitting at the Round Table amidst all his loyal knights of Camelot . . .
It had been a long time ago. He wouldn't call it a particularly fond memory, but at the present moment, he wanted to escape.
Escape to anywhere but here.
"What are we going to do," Francis stated, breaking the silence. "That's the question. We can't keep ignoring it."
Arthur rolled his eyes and huffed in annoyance. "Thanks for bringing it up; I was doing a real good job succeeding at it, too."
"You heard what they said. It's not something that should be put aside. We need to act now."
"We don't have to do anything," Arthur said. "As far as I know, they hadn't intended us to hear what they were saying. Now that I know, I wish we hadn't found out the way we did. I realize why they wanted to keep things a secret." The Briton placed his head in his hands. "It's an utter nightmare."
"Well . . ." Francis searched for anything to say. He settled with what he kept telling himself during the World Wars. "We can't just run away."
Arthur sat there quietly, his face obscured behind his hands. Francis imagined the Englishman combating the tears that were threatening to spill. There were times where the situation was just so frustrating that one had to break down and let loose all the pent-up anger. The nation of England didn't often perform such an act, meaning his emotional state was even more fragile than others. This had to have been a first for him.
"That's what you keep saying, right?" Francis leaned to the side, trying to get a look at England's expression. "Angleterre? You're not crying, are you?"
"Sorry." Arthur raised his head, sucking in a long stream of air. "You're right. Running away is more of your area of expertise, anyway. Don't know what I was saying there."
"I feel like I should be angry," Francis said. "I'm glad you're feeling better, but you just insulted me."
"Insulting you raises my morale. Don't take it personally."
". . ." Francis looked out the window, glancing up towards the star-dotted sky. "Remind me again why I'm even working with you?"
"Because if you didn't form an alliance with a greater power, you'd die in a millisecond."
Francis tilted in his head in exasperation. "How in the world do you do that?"
"Hm? Do what?"
"That." Francis pointed straight between Arthur's eyes, causing the Englishman to go cross-eyed. "How do you manage to insult me, compliment yourself, and speak the truth at the same time?"
Arthur smiled smugly. "Well. Take some lessons from me, ol' chap. If you can't fight, you can still use words. Frankly, you're not very good at both, so might as well, eh?"
"There. You did it again."
"Which reminds me," Arthur said, suddenly jumping to another topic, "I was thinking . . ."
"Does it involve another magical stunt?"
Arthur frowned. "No. I was rather thinking of approaching Russia, actually."
Francis stood and started straight for the door.
"Hey, where are you going?"
"You can go ahead and die alone, Angleterre. I'm not coming."
"Honestly! It's not that bad of an idea!"
"Er, oui. It is."
"You heard them talking about asking Russia about the article published in his archives! They said that if it wasn't Greece, then they would go directly to Ivan. We should take the opportunity to consult him first, seeing as they're obviously going for Heracles."
Francis took a wary step back. "And you're sure it'll work?"
"If we offer Ivan the right bargaining chip, we can get answers out of him."
". . . If I agree to come, then you'll have to be the one to knock on the door."
Arthur sighed. "Fine. But one question."
"Ouais?"
"D'you've got any vodka?"
Next chapter: Greece
Will he fall? Will be stand victorious? Who knows? And maybe there will be a guest star . . .
Things are heating up. I wonder what Russia will do . . . I wonder who finds out the secret next . . . Who will be attacked next? Oh, so many questions, so little time.
