Hi there I don't own Hetalia or Call of Duty or Paranormal Activity bye

Issa's POV

After I walk back to my seat, Zack asks, "What's happening, exactly?"

"We're gonna attack Germany and see if we can break out the other three people, or trap either Germany, Japan, or Italy, or both. Depending on how lucky we are," I respond, taking the blanket and folding it as I talk.

"Oh, cool," he says. He looks between me and England, and then slowly at the other countries at the room, and then at England again. "He said we're not going, am I right?"

"You and Jia Li aren't going," I clarify.

"And you are?"

"Yeah," I respond lightly.

"Aw," he whines. "I wanna blow up some countries."

"I probably won't even touch anything that explodes," I say. "And I don't want to. I'm extremely clumsy."

"Trade places?" he asks.

"You're in danger still; I'm not."

"Touché," he hums.

England's on the phone again. He seems to be pleading with someone, in a slightly whiny voice. And, I realize, in English. "Please?" he asks. "It's very important. Yes, now would be great. You will?! Thank you so much. You're the best." He closes the cell phone and snaps something at France when he "Onhonhon"s. A fight ensues. Russia starts to play with Jia Li's hair, which causes an argument between him and China, and Jia Li scoots closer to me. I try my best to console her without words. America and Canada are chatting, but America stops occasionally to add fuel to the flames between France and England.

"This again?" Zack asks.

"Yeah. It's nearly impossible for them to not fight," I respond mildly.

"You'd think they'd get along after centuries of each other."

"I know, right?" I answer.

The door opens. A stern-looking young woman stands there. It looks like she just threw clothes on after rolling out of bed. Her long chocolate brown hair is smoothed into a bun, but many strands hang loose around her face. She's not wearing makeup, and a white blouse is tucked into a navy-blue skirt. Her stormy eyes survey the situation with distaste. "Mr. Kirkland," she calls to England, her accent matching his. When she gets no response, she repeats herself impatiently, "Mr. Kirkland."

England stops strangling France. "Jane!" he calls, waving to her childishly.

"You should feel lucky," she tells him, her voice as cold as the snow outside, "that I came. I'm long off-duty."

"I know," England says, looking sheepish. "It's urgent, though."

"You just need me to babysit, am I correct?"

"Yes, pretty much."

Jane doesn't look too happy with her task.

Zack frowns from next to me. "I'm not a baby," he protests quietly.

Jane turns to the three humans. In a much more motherly tone, she tells us, "Hello, there."

"Uh...Hi," Zack says. I merely wave.

England pokes her shoulder. "Jia Li only speaks Chinese."

"That's not a problem." And she starts a conversation with her in that language.

"Jane's my assistant," England clarifies to me and Zack.

"Oh, okay," I respond.

"We obviously can't leave you and Jia Li here alone," he continues to Zack.

"Right," he agrees, and he eyes Jane untrustingly from by me.

It's weird. People aren't usually very fond of me unless they've taken the time to get to know me. I just met him and Jia Li, and they don't seem to like to leave my side.

America announces something in Japanese while standing up. One by one, the remaining nations check their cell phones as they get a text, and they say something too. "Let's go," America says cheerfully to me.

I nod and start following him. "Bye," Zack calls from behind.

I turn and attempt a smile at him. "Bye." And I wave at Jia Li when she does.

XXXXXXXXXXX

I think an hour later, I stand next to Canada as he attempts to teach me how to use a pistol. But I can't concentrate, and I don't remember most of it. All I know is I have six rounds in the bullet-holder-thingy (I forgot what it's called; it starts with a "C", I think...). The most important thing about guns, Canada said, was to always treat them like they're loaded and the safety's off.

"I think I'll keep it 'on'..." I say nervously, gingerly putting the gun in the holster around my waist. I feel so soldier right now. And, no duh, it's because I'm in a Canadian Army uniform. It's just like American Army uniforms, but a Canadian flag where the American flag is. And I have the cap, thing, too.

"Yeah," Canada symphasizes as he puts his in his holster, "I'm not fond of guns, either...I don't think you can go wrong with a hockey stick for a weapon..."

I smile and stick my hands in my pockets, my breath fogging around my face. All around, there are soldiers. A small army made up of five— six— different countries. I say six because technically, Canada and I make up the great Canadian army for right now. Canada and I are in between a fraction of the British and Russian armies. England occasionally glances over to fret for my well-being. I'm honestly surprised I haven't shot anyone—or myself, for that matter—in the foot yet.

We're in front of Germany's mansion. It's nighttime, but it's obvious we're here. England said twenty-five people or so from each army, so, twenty-five times five is one hundred twenty-five people. Not bad for an impromptu battle. Soldiers on either sides are chattering in English and Russian, occasionally glancing at me, or up at the mansion. I know I'm just a kid and shouldn't be in a place where the big-bad adults play, but at least I know not to stare (I'm talking to you, big dude on the Russian side who's gawking at me).

I look up. Movement a few stories up catches my attention, and I see a faint outline of messy blonde hair.

Josh.

I pull of my cap while allowing a grin on my face, and I wave my arm in the air in a greeting. Vaguely, I see Josh lift a hand in a small, disbelieving wave. From beside him, someone with short gray hair—I'm assuming this is Russia's lookalike, who's name I don't remember— puts a finger against the window. I turn in that direction, and there's Russia himself, approaching the door, his pipe out and in his hands. I see the purple aura around him, and it's no wonder the soldiers– even his own—don't follow him as he beats the crap out of the door. When the barrier lies in splinters around the snow, the soldiers swarm the door.

I feel Canada's hand on my shoulder, worriedly keeping me close to him, even though I don't even try to follow the soldiers. I glance back up at the window, but Josh is gone. But in the window where he was, Germany's there. He scowls down at the scene—at least, I think he does. I can't see facial expressions very well when he's that high up—, and he yanks the curtains closed.

I tug on Canada's sleeve. "They won't be there."

"Who won't be where?"

"Josh and the others, and possibly the Axis. They're going in the front. It's more likely they'll sneak out the back," I inform him.

Canada frowns, and he says something in Japanese in a walkie-talkie. He doesn't get a response, and his frown deepens. "Well... Let's go check it out."

I nod and follow as he goes around the building. Here's a better way to describe it— let's pretend the front of the mansion is facing North (I have no idea if it does or not, but humor me). We're walking on the West side, then. I notice Canada left his crutches somewhere, and he only walks with a slight limp. I find that weird, because it was broken less than twelve hours ago.

Just before we would turn to the South side, there's a small commotion. We're still a good football-field away, but there's no mistaking the sharp crack as something runs into something hard. Canada pulls me behind a small-ish tree that's on the side of the house right as someone falls over into view. It's just their head, but I can recognize it.

It's Josh.

I suck in a shaky gasp when I realize there's red staining the white snow around him, and then there's someone dragging him away.

I forget how to think. All I know is Josh is right there, he's hurt, and he needs my help, so I take off running without a single warning.

"Issa!" Canada protests, reaching out to grab my shoulder. I sidestep his hand and run. Through the midst of all the panic, my mind reminds me that I'm armed, so I fumble with the gun. I trail it on the back of the closest soldier and, without thinking, pull the trigger. But nothing happens. I remember that I left the safety on, and I toss the pistol to the side and continue running.

The soldier pushes Josh into a black van with tinted windows, and he jumps in, too. I don't think they even see me coming. Anyway, the driver steps on the gas and the van shoots away. I was maybe fifty feet away, but it easily outdistances me. I can only make one thought: Stop! Don't leave! Stop! but I can't make my mouth work. I stretch out a hand, reaching for my friend, but he's gone.

In the back window, someone turns. It's the Russia lookalike. He has a gag over his mouth. his amethyst eyes meet my turquoise, and he nods at me, sending a silent message: I'll keep him safe.

Then the van's gone. I stop running, and I just stand there, watching the red tail lights get smaller and smaller until they disappear.

I don't realize I'm crying until Canada catches up with me. I avoid eye contact, but I force myself to choke out, "I'm sorry."

"That— that was—" He's breathing too heavily to answer, but I know what he's going to say.

"Impulsive. Reckless. Stupid. Take your pick." I run my fingers under my eyes, and they sting from the mixture of the liquid and the cold weather.

Canada does then does the thing that surprises me the most: he hugs me. I pause for a few seconds before accepting the embrace and crying onto his shoulder. He smells like maple. I allow myself five—six— deep breaths before pulling myself together.

"Come on, then," he murmurs softly, keeping a comforting arm around my shoulder and guiding me back around the front.

America runs up. "Canada— what—" he pants. Then he stops. "You really tried to get them out by yourself?!" he asks almost shrilly.

Throat too tight for words, I nod, still staring intently at my shoes.

"That was so stupid!" he cries. "What were you thinking?!"

"I wasn't," I reply.

"Well that's obvious!" he fumes. "I can't believe that—"

"I did one stupid thing, in comparison to the millions of stupid things you've done?!" I exclaim. I'm not sure who's the most alarmed by my intensity. "I know everything about you, America. You'd do the same thing in my shoes. I already know that was stupid of me, so just cut me some slack!"

America seems stunned. Then his unexplainable rage comes back. "Oh, you know everything about me, huh?"

"You love horror movies, but they terrify you. You often call Japan to watch them with you. One time he gave you gory video games to play so you wouldn't be so scared, and you said something like, 'I can do this, because games are about death and winning, and I'm America!'" I pause and let him take that in. "You're terrible at reading the atmosphere, just like Italy. You're friends with Tony the alien and a whale. When you made friends with the whale, England found you and asked something about you not having enough friends, so you resort to making friends with whales, and then he asked to be your friend. You said no and ran away laughing. One time you guilted Japan into going to your Christmas party. I know everything about you." I pause again, this time because my voice shakes. "And you didn't even know I was missing until England told you."

He's at a loss for words. "I— I knew you were missing," he protests.

"Could have fooled me," I answer coldly.

"Well—I know things about you, too!" he retorts indignantly. "You're Isabella Nicole Pryce, daughter of Michelle and David Pryce, born on July first, nineteen-ninety-eight in Washington D.C., seven pounds, twenty-one inches."

"But anyone can figure that out; just look at my birth certificate!" I cry back. I made a little choking noise when he said my dad's name, and Canada gently squeezes my shoulder. "You don't know anything about me! You—you don't know why I'm like what I'm like, or what I've been through! I bet you don't even know how he died!"

I don't know how exactly this turned into a competition of who-knows-what, but Canada interjects almost firmly, "That's enough. Both of you."

He just glares at me. I don't like this; he's way too out of character for my liking, and my little outbursts didn't help. "I'm sorry," I finally tell him. "I wasn't thinking again."

He sighs, and then, "I'm sorry too. I'm, y'know, inconsolable when I'm angry."

England runs up, and he's also panting. "Canada, Issa, America— you're all all right?"

I nod, and there's a mutter of consent from both of the nations.

"Issa—you didn't—"

I nod again.

"Well, that was very—!"

"If it's all the same to you," I murmur, "I've already gotten the lecture."

"...All right, then..." he says, and then he hugs me. "I'm just glad you're safe."

Glad I'm safe. Huh. I can't help but be indignant, despite the attempt at connection. Why is he glad I'm safe? Because that would mean paperwork for him? What am I, to all of them? Am I just a minor speed-bump in their everyday lives? It's not like I'm the most important human they've met, or ever will meet. Quite the opposite, actually.

"...We should get back..." England suggests. "The Axis is nowhere to be found."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

And here we are. Back in London. Zack was playing go fish with Jane (she's winning).

When we walked in, Zack jumped up. "How'd it go?"

I shot him a sad glance, and he let his smile drop. "...That bad, huh?"

Jia Li notices, and she gives me a hug. I bury my face in her shoulder, hiding from today. There's a second person hugging me, and I realize it's Zack, which surprises me. I shift to let him in the embrace, but still keep my face on Jia Li's shoulder. Behind us, the rest of the Allies are talking seriously in Japanese. I think England let Jane go home, because when I emerge from the hug, she's gone.

England asks me, "Do you want to go home?"

I nod at him, still avoiding eye contact.

"All right. Let's go now."

I nod again. Zack gives me another hug before I can do anything else, and he whispers in my ear, "Bye."

"Bye, Zack," I reply.

China explained what was said to Jia Li, and she looks sad as she hugs me again. I pet her hair wordlessly for a few seconds before pulling away.

It's Canada who hugs me next, and I don't complain. Then, surprisingly, considering our big fight, America. He whispers in my ear, "I actually do know how he died. I'm sorry."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"...It's that one," I say to England, pointing at my house. He pulls into the driveway.

"Do you think your mom is awake?" he asks.

"I dunno. I know the garage password, so I can get in through there." I walk over to the little key code on the wall of the garage and enter the five-number password, and the door rumbles up. Almost immediately after the door raises high enough to admit a person in, the door to the inside of the house opens, and there stands Mom. She lets out a strangles cry of shock, and runs toward me. I embrace her, and she starts petting my hair and murmuring, "Oh, thank you, God, thank you...!" She backs up to look at me, and she fires off a round of questions so fast I don't have time to answer one before she starts another. "Are you hurt!? Why is your hair short!? What happened to your face?! What happened?! Where have you been?!"

I smile at her. "I'm okay."

Mom stops and looks at England. Before she can hysterically interrogate him, he says, "My name is Arthur Kirkland."

"Thank you," she exclaims. "Thank you for bringing her home."

"It's no problem, really," he says as Mom wrings his hand. My dog, Oz, who I didn't notice come out, dances around us, trying to jump up and lick our faces, even though he doesn't ever reach our knees.

"Please—" she says, "Come in." He doesn't protest as Mom nearly drags him in the house. She asks, "Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? Tea?"

"No thank you," he responds politely.

A door opens down the hall. "Mom...?" asks a sleepy-sounding voice. "What's happening?"

"Renae!" I cry, rushing to her. I'm hugging her before she knows what hits her.

"Issa...!" she says, hugging me as tightly as her frail body will allow. I stroke her hair over and over, trying not to cry in front of England. "You're okay!" Renae sobs into my shoulder.

"Shh, it's okay," I whisper. "It's okay, it's okay..."

England seems to be explaining to Mom, but not using the nation thing. He only says, "I'm not sure why they took her. My acquaintances and I have come to the conclusion she won't be in danger again, however."

"How did you find her?" Mom asks.

"She found me, really," he answers lightly. "Ran me over, too." He catches my eye in a teasing manner.

"Who were those men?"

"Sadly, they're old colleagues of mine. No doubt the police will have them in custody soon, don't you worry." I know this part is a big fat lie, because they're countries, and they can easily escape prison, no matter what the sentence.

A few more questions and answers, and then England announces, "I really should go. Duty calls, you know."

Mom shakes his hand again, and I mumble, "Bye, Arthur. Thanks for everything."

"You take care of yourself now, am I clear?"

I nod, and he smiles and hugs me. And then he leaves.

I can't believe it's really over. All that happening, and it's over. Just like that.

But I know it won't be over forever. I know what's coming— flashbacks, daydreams, and nightmares.

Mom sits me on the couch, and Renae sits on my lap. Mom sits next to me, and I lean my head on her shoulder. Oz curls himself around our ankles like a cat.

"So, what happened?" Mom asks, stroking my hair.

"I was in class," I start. "Three guys walked in, and they had a gun. They only spoke Japanese. They made me and Josh leave. I guess I was causing too much fuss, so they knocked me out as soon as they got us in their car. When I woke up, I was chained to a bed. They cut my hair. Later, they brought in a girl from China. Her name's Jia Li. She didn't speak English. Anyway, I think they would've cut her hair, and I tried to stop them, but one guy lost his patience and did this." I run my finger over my cut. "Anyway, he seemed to realize what he did, and he gave me stitches. But he was still going to cut Jia Li's hair. I decided if I couldn't stop them, I'd be there to comfort her, so I made him let me come. Their backs were turned, and the doors were unlocked, so we escaped. We ran into Arthur— literally—right outside. He helped us get away." I hesitate. If England didn't want them to know about the nations, I'm not going to tell them. So, I guess that makes the whole army thing kind of irrelevant.

"...and he found one of his friends who spoke Chinese, and Jia Li stayed with him. And then he brought me home," I conclude. It's a very vague summary, but I don't have the energy to make a better one.

"They didn't— y'know—touch you, did they?" Mom asks worriedly.

I shake my head.

"Did you hear from Josh at all?"

"Yeah. His room was right next to mine, and they weren't soundproof walls," I explain. "I wasn't planning on escaping without him— it just happened."

"Well, I'm glad you did," Renae says.

"Me too," from Mom.

"Me three," I respond. "I just wish I could've helped him."

"You got Jia Li out of there, didn't you?" Mom says.

I nod, and a silence passes. "Listen, I'm gonna go to bed. Long day, y'know."

"By all means," Mom says. She hugs me. "Goodnight. I love you."

"Night."

Renae asks, "Can I sleep in your bed?"

"Of course, Doodlebug," I respond.

We walk hand-in-hand to my room, all numb with joy and shock. I crawl into bed without changing into pajamas, and Renae curls up next to me. Mom tucks us both in, and she excuses herself to go make a few phone calls.

"I'm so happy you're safe," Renae whispers.

I hold her hand. "Thanks. I'm happy to be home."

I lie on my back, my baby sister curled up and tucked safely under my arm. I keep one hand on her shoulder, like she was the one who was kidnapped and not me, and if I didn't, someone would take her away from me. I love her so much.

I stare up at the ceiling, even though I can't see it through the darkness. I wonder what's going to happen now. I'm kind of afraid to go back to school; people will be giving me too much attention. Positive or negative attention...I'm not sure.

I feel my eyes slowly start to close, and I drift off into sleep.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Somehow, the gun isn't what's bothering me the most at the moment. It's being this close to an unfamiliar person. The back of my head is pressed against his chest, which rises and falls steadily. He's really tall; I only reach up to his shoulder, and I'm one of the tallest freshman in the school at 5'8". His hand is on my shoulder, squeezing it continually, keeping me from making a run for it. I don't like being this close to a kidnapper and possible murderer. I don't like being this close to anyone outside my family, really.

Finally, I go limp, shutting my eyes and breathing shakily. I let my hair fall over my face, providing a thin curtain between myself and the Axis. Calm down. Don't cry. Be brave, I think. I repeat that over and over in my head like a mantra, but it's not holding much effect. Behind me, the Japan and the Germany are conversing in Japanese, and I don't understand anything.

"Oi!" Ludwig shouts at me. He grabs my shoulder and makes me face him. He starts scolding me loudly in a mixture of Japanese and German. I clench my eyes shut and pummel his arm, occasionally yelling, "Iie!" at him.

"Arigato gozaimasu." I stand up gratefully and walk a few feet away. I don't like his lack of personal space much. I don't feel...threatened, per se. More like intimidated. I know he's not going to hurt me. In fact, he seems opposed to what the Axis has done. But he's not doing anything about it, and I still don't trust him very much. A lot more than the other Axis, but still not much.

Jia Li changes into China's clothes in the bathroom, and I'm engulfed in my thoughts. She's here now; she's obviously the China lookalike. I want to help her as much as I can. Forget about me—I don't care about me. Jia Li needs my help, and I'm going to make sure she gets out of here in one piece.

Sing? For someone I hardly know, someone who doesn't speak my language? Well, I did it for Jia Li, so I can do it for Dimah... But what song? I decide on the only song that I know that has any Russian words at all in it: Russia's character song, Winter. "Da svedanya, ima wa made. Ny ponemayu. Da svedanya, yami no kana te he. Saizan no seijaku he izanau you ni saiteiru hana yo! Utai tamae!"

I let out an involuntary cry of pain and shock as I topple to the ground, my cheek throbbing in pain. When I feel it, my hand comes away red and sticky; blood. Jia Li screams once, and Josh pounds on the wall, yelling my name. I look up at Germany in anger, but I bite my tongue to prevent from screaming at him. Shakily, I get to my feet and resume the defensive stance. I can feel my blood dripping down my face and onto my neck. "Go. Away," I order, pleased to hear my voice not shake. The blade in Germany's hand trembles, and he stands still. Then, slowly, he reaches out to wipe blood from my face.

Another awkward silence happens. I fiddle with my seatbelt. My mind starts to wander, and my thoughts set on Josh. Is he okay? Did the Axis hurt him for our escape to teach him a lesson? I shudder at the thought.

I hate lying. I just feel so untrustworthy. And poor Josie'll be so heartbroken when her newfound "Friend" takes away her twin. I mean, they're obviously close; all the pictures in her room have him in them. At least, I'm assuming that's Zack; he looks just like Josie, and America, for that matter. Minus Nantucket, but other than that, they're the same.

I nod and stare out the window at all the snow. It's maybe seven in the evening, but it's winter, so it's dark already. The orange streetlights are on, illuminating the road. My gaze travels down to my hands. I can see a large bruise forming on my wrist from where Germany was holding it. I rub the tender area, wanting nothing more than to forget that, forget this, forget everything. I just want everything to be normal again. Is that too much to ask for?

I forget how to think. All I know is Josh is right there, he's hurt, and he needs my help, so I take off running without a single warning.

"...Issa...?" Someone's shaking my shoulder. "Wake up..."

"...What?!" I gasp, bolting upright.

"You were having a nightmare..." Renae explains.

Oh. I can believe that; I'm panting like I just ran a mile, and I'm shaking even though it's warm in here. "...I'm okay," I tell Renae, lying back down. "Just a nightmare."

Just a nightmare, I repeat in my head. Just a stupid nightmare.

XXXXXXXXXXX

When I wake up, it's seven-fifteen in the morning. Renae is still asleep, and I carefully inch out of bed so I don't wake her. I grab some clothes and a towel, and I make a beeline for the bathroom. I feel disgusting; my hair gets greasy really easily, and I haven't showered in two days.

I make the water really hot. It helps wake me up.

Anyway, once I'm done, I towel-dry myself and dress in the clothes—a pair of jeans, a dark grey camisole, and a red and blue checkered over shirt. I enter my room again, and I reach for my maple leaf necklace, but I stop.

I reach up with my other hand to grasp my pendant, but it's not there. I fumble around my neck for a minute before concluding that it really is gone. "Aw," I mumble, more to myself than anyone else.

Suddenly, there's a tapping at the window. "What is Prussia's stupid bird doing here?" England asks to himself, striding over to open the glass. Once the window is open, Gilbird flies in and lands on my head.

"Well, hello to you too..." I mutter, scooping up the canary. He peeps, and my necklace falls out of his beak. He chirps again, nuzzles my thumb, and flies out the window again.

"...Well that was odd," England sums up. "What is that?"

"My necklace..." I respond, examining it for a few seconds before holding it out to the Brit. "I must've lost it...It falls off so easily..."

England observes it closely, and then uses something he drew from his pocket to scan the pendant and chain. "Making sure they didn't do anything to it," he mutters to me in explanation. After a few minutes he dubs it clean and passes it back to me.

"Oh, here! Lemme put it on you!" America sings coming closer.

"Ah—no thanks; I got it," I say quickly, taking a defensive step back. I run into the couch where Canada lies, and I jump forward, right into China. "Sorry, gomenesai."

"You really don't need to be so polite to him," England whispers to me, his green eyes sparkling with jovial humor.

I didn't know England had a sense of humor. Huh.

I really hate how I flashback like that every time something reminds me of a certain event. It's annoying. I don't want it to happen again, so I leave the necklace there and put on a different one- a gold one with a treble clef pendant.

I wander upstairs. "Hi, Mommy," I greet my mom. She turns from her spot at the table.

"Hey, baby," she says, smiling. "I made pancakes."

"Great," I respond, "I'm starving."

I put some pancakes on a plate and drown them in maple syrup. I stop again-

Canada does then does the thing that surprises me the most: he hugs me. I pause for a few seconds before accepting the embrace and crying onto his shoulder. He smells like maple. I allow myself five—six—deep breaths before pulling myself together.

"Hey—Issa, what's wrong?" Mom asks.

I realize I had frozen where I was, and it takes a few seconds to remember I'm here and not there. "Nothing. I'm just cold," I lie.

"Oh, okay," she says. "Your coat and other school things are on the couch over there—I picked them up yesterday."

"Thanks," I respond, trying to make my tone lighthearted.

I eat the pancakes and put my plate in the sink. "So guess what?" Mom asks.

"What?"

"The news want to do a story-thing on you."

I frown. "I don't want a story done on me."

"Why not?"

"I don't like cameras, or people prying into my feelings," I tell her, and my tone sounds so bitter I have to add, "I haven't done anything extraordinary, anyways."

"...All right, then..." Mom says. "But I'm sure you'll have to at least tell the police."

"Yeah, I figured..."

I glance at the clock again. "It's almost time for school. Should I get Renae up?"

"You want to go to school?" Mom asks, surprised. "You don't want to, like, rest or anything?"

I shake my head firmly. "I don't want to dwell on it any longer than I have to."

She nods. "That makes sense... I'll go get Renae up." And she walks towards my room.

I sit down on the counter and bring my knees up to my chest. I actually don't want to go to school. At all. But what I said is true; the first step towards recovering is getting on with your life, putting yourself in familiar places. Even though my familiar isn't very pleasant.

Half an hour later, Mom drops me off at school. "Bye, sweetheart..." she says, and I know she's really worried about me, so I smile at her.

"Bye. I'll be okay," I remind her. "I'll call you if anything comes up."

"All right. See you after school."

I walk into school. A bit nervously, I walk into the cafeteria where we're supposed to wait before the bell rings, and I fiddle with my backpack straps. The upperclassmen who inhabit the first couple of tables closest to the door stop and gawk at me. Maybe I should invest on less obnoxiously loud keychains. I feel a blush on my face as I continue to walk, and I'm all too aware of the open wound on my face and my short hair.

Then— "Issa!" Someone hugs me from behind. "You're okay!"

It's a girl I never really considered to be my friend. She's an acquaintance, but she's never made a bigger attempt to be my friend, and I was always too shy to. Her name's Jinny.

I accept the embrace. "Hi, Jinny."

"Are you okay? What happened here?" She motions to my face.

Is that going to be the first thing people say to me? "It's nothing," I respond lightly, like I get kidnapped and cut all the time.

Suddenly, there's a group of people surrounding me, asking questions so fast I don't have time to answer. I might as well have come back from the dead. I guess this is like that one saying— "They'll only miss you when you're gone." If I was never taken, I wouldn't have people seeming genuinely worried for me. People I've never talked to pat me on the back, say they're glad I'm safe.

A lot of people are asking where Josh is.

Finally, one person yells, "Give her some space, people, sheesh!"

I look gratefully for my savior, but then I shrink back a little. The person who told everyone to give me space is actually my tormentor. He specializes in pushing me down, calling me names, and destroying my books. I'm confused, and a little apprehensive.

"So," he starts, and I notice how his gaze lingers accusingly over my cheek, "you're back."

"Yeah," I respond.

"I was taking bets on how long they'd keep you there. I'm surprised it took two days to realize there's nothing special about you."

I frown at the hurtful comment, but I hold my tongue. There's nothing I can say that will make him leave me alone.

Then, I'm surprised. One girl, one of the more popular girls, scolds him, "That was terrible." And then there's more people standing up for me. I stand there, dumbfounded, but also feeling myself get more and more offended and depressed.

Why didn't you guys notice this before?

I duck out of the fray of people and go in the girls' bathroom. I clutch the sides of the sink. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. I push up my sleeve and drag my sharp, bitten nails up my arm. Don't. Cry.

The bell rings. I walk up the stairs to my first period class, US history. "Hi, Mr. C.," I mumble as I walk in, "what did I miss?" I say the words like I was only out sick for two days.

He seems stunned at my appearance, but he gives me the worksheets we did. I sit in my seat, open my textbook, and begin working. I ignore everyone and everything, only concentrating on the War of 1812. The rest of the school day passes with nothing more abnormal than people gawking at me, telling me they're happy I'm okay, or asking me to describe what happened. Or asking where Josh is.

Finally, I make it to sixth hour—Physical Science. We're learning about Boyle's and Charles's Law. Because of free seating, a lot more people have clumped around me. I fake a smile and respond to their questions semi-truthfully. But when people start goofing off when they're supposed to be doing their work, I start ignoring people. If they say my name, I glance up and mutter a "Yeah" or a "Sure." The intercom goes off, and I don't listen to it; people get called down to the office all the time here. But the girl next to me pokes me and goes, "That was you."

I jerk out of my work-induced trance and say, "Oh—thanks." And then I walk down to the specified place.

When I get there, I'm genuinely surprised, and then anxious. Something bad must have happened for them to be standing here in my school. I blurt, "What are you doing here?" at America and Canada.

"Hey!" America says cheerfully, and I can tell he's straining his grin. "Don't you remember? I told you we'd be here to pick you up!"

Something is definitely wrong. I play along by going, "Oh. Right, yeah." And then we all walk out to America's silver truck. As soon as we're outside, I demand, "Okay, spill. What happened?"

America takes a deep breath, and right as I think he's going to crack a stupid comment, he makes a choking sound and shakes his head.

I'm stunned—this is the cockiest, most arrogant character in Hetalia. He's strong, and brave, and always just so happy. But there's something terribly, terribly wrong for him to just crumble like this. I look at Canada, and he seems just as surprised as I am.

He catches my questioning glance, and he says softly, "It's England. Germany took him."

"But— h—how do you know?"

"Well...England was filming something when it happened..." Canada explains, fumbling with his phone. He taps a few buttons, and then hands it to me.

On the screen, a miniscule England squints at the camera. "Ugh. Is this— working—? Blasted technology…. Ah, right." He back away and looks at a paper in his hand. "So...Alfred suggested I do what he calls video diaries..." he says to the camera. "Although—" he crumples the paper in his hands, "—I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to say. So... I might look at this and laugh in a few years. Or look at this and kill Alfred. Whichever mood I'm in..."

The door behind him is kicked open, and soldiers pour in. England is easily overpowered, even though he managed to land a kick on one guy that should've broken his jaw. The camera is overturned, and we can see sideways that England is dragged out by the soldiers. Right outside, Germany stands. He says something to England in Japanese, and I know enough curse words to know he just responded with several. Germany retaliates by punching him in the face.

Suddenly, one of the soldiers picks up the camera. He turns it this way and that, occasionally poking the lens. Then he shrugs and sets it down. A few seconds later the video ends.

I stand staring at Canada's phone for a few seconds before shakily handing it back to him. "What did he say?"

"Well..." he hesitates, and looks at America. He adverts his gaze. "We should go."

I hesitate before climbing in the back seat. America takes driver, and Canada sits shotgun. "What did he say?" I ask again.

Canada doesn't answer for a while. "Germany... He wants you."

I feel a mixture of horror and disbelief take control of me. "Wh— why?"

He shakes his head sadly. "I don't know. He didn't say."

"So, what—" My voice cracks. "What now?"

"We're gonna keep you safe," America pipes up determinedly. I can see his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel, and I'm surprised he's holding back enough to not snap the piece of metal like a toothpick.

I nod, trusting them. I'm scared, and I have no one else to turn to. I find it odd that not too long ago I was not caring for myself, wishing everyone else would stop pretending to care, and now, I'm afraid for my life. Funny, the way things work.

Minutes later, we pull up into America's mansion. As soon as he gets in, America flops face-first on the couch. I hover uncertainly by the door, not wanting to intrude. Canada goes, "Oh," really softly, and he explains, "I have a theory as to why Germany wants you."

"Okay..." I say, holding the syllable out for several beats.

"Do you know your blood type?"

"Uh, no..."

He makes a face. Like, when you push your tongue against your cheek. It's a thinking face. "I'll need to do a blood test on you."

"Oh— all right. Sure," I respond. I hate needles of all shapes and sizes.

"Al, where do you keep your blood test-thingies?" America points down the hall without looking up or saying anything, and my concern for him grows. "Okay. Thanks," Canada calls to him as he goes in that direction. He adds to me, "Sit tight. I'll be right back."

I nod wordlessly as he disappears down the hall. A few seconds pass, and I hear a hardly audible sniffle from America.

My heart nearly breaks. England's and America's relationship is so sweet, even though they both deny caring for each other.

Tentatively, I walk closer and sit next to America. "...It's gonna be okay..." I tell him softly, rubbing his back a little.

America sits up, and he hugs me tightly and cries on my shoulder. I do my best to comfort him. I'm honestly still weirded out from his OOC-ness, but I guess nobody can be strong all the time.

After what seems like forever, he stops and rubs at his face. "I was sweating through my eyes," he tells me, almost in a joking manner.

"Of course you were," I respond.

Canada comes back with a metal and plastic thingamabobber in his hands. "Okay," he says, "give me your hand." I try to keep from either bursting into hysterical laughter or grimacing as I hold out my hand. Canada pricks my finger with a needle, and a drop of blood appears on the tip. I rub the drop on the metal thingy, and Canada nods, appreciative of my lack of spazzing out.

I'm screaming in my mind. Sometimes, little things like that hurt the worst.

I'm not speaking for anyone who's had a limb amputated, though. I bet they'd gladly take a finger prick to having an arm or a leg lopped off.

Canada frowns, tapping the screen a few times. "C'mon..." A few seconds pass. "Your blood's healthy..." he reports. "And it's..." He stops and stares at the screen, a mixture of panic and disbelief on his face. When he speaks, his voice is slightly strained and jumpy. "America—!"

"Wh—what is it?" I ask, inching away a little.

America takes the thingy-thing from Canada, and he too blanches. "That's—that's—not good. That's not good."

"I, uh, didn't do it," I throw in.

"No, it's not you," America says. "It's your blood type."

"What is it?"

"U-negative."

"But—" I exhale sharply, and it almost sounds like a laugh. "That's not possible—! I—is it?"

"It's rare," Canada agrees, looking concerned. "There's an old legend among nations...If a human has a U-negative blood type, if you mix that type of blood with the blood of a nation... It makes a bomb powerful enough to kill an entire nation."

I think back on England's words: "It takes a lot more than cutting off heads to do out with a nation." And, that's a way to kill a nation. Germany wants to wipe out an entire—freaking—nation. "So—I'm the wild card," I sum up.

He nods solemnly.

"Oh, that's great. Just perfect." I stand up and stalk over to a window. "I explode. That's wonderful."

"It's not your fault," America tells me.

"I know that," I respond. "But what now? Will he just keep trying to get my blood until I'm dead?"

"I— I don't know," Canada responds. "We're going to keep you safe, though, don't worry."

"I'm not worried about me," I respond harshly. I stop and continue in a calmer voice, "I'm worried he'll kill all those people. Because if you die, your country dies too, right? That's why you're so hard to kill."

"That's right," America agrees. "But why don't you care about yourself?"

I scowl out the window at the flowers in the flowerbed. "I'm one person in trillions. The odds of me doing something unforgettable are extremely low."

"They're at zero if you don't try."

"I know. I don't not try." I take a deep breath. "I just—don't want to talk about it, okay?"

They back down. "Okay," Canada murmurs.

Zack walks in. "Hey, Al, do you know—" He stops as he sees me. "Oh. Hi. What are you doing here?"

"I, uh. My blood explodes. And if it explodes, it kills a nation," I say in compendium. "So, if Germany gets my blood, he can take out the entire world."

"Oh. Just that," he says bluntly. "Well, that sucks."

"No kidding."

"You need a hug?" he asks, raising his arms halfway.

"Sure," I mumble. I was only going to make it a quick hug, but he holds on to me, which I find weird. "Uh—..."

"You smell good," he protests. I feel him lift up a strand of my hair and smell it.

I give a small laugh and shove him away. "Creeper," I mutter in his direction.

"No, you really do! What shampoo do you use?"

"Uh—Almond and shay butter?"

"I should make Josie use that stuff! It's like—awesome."

"Okay...?" I half-laugh again. "Not weird at all..."

"I'm just sayin'!" he exclaims, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Well, you say some pretty weird things..." I muse in his general direction. That was weird—he just made me do a complete mood-180. I was just kind of mopey, and now I'm almost laughing. Well, I guess that wouldn't be a 180. I just did a mood-90. Sounds kinda weird, but that's more correct.

Zack crosses his arms and exaggerates a pouty-face. "That was mean," he says in a childish voice. "Take it back."

"Hm...No."

He starts tickling me, occasionally yelling at me, "I'm not weird! Take it back!"

At the invasion of my personal space (Pfft, I sound like Japan), I gasp and then start flailing. I don't take being tickled very well. I think I end up slapping him in the face. He doesn't seem to care, so I start tickling him back.

Immediately, he squirms away from me. "Ahah, stop it, that tickles!"

"You started it!" I protest.

"So?"

"So it was self-defense." I stick my tongue out at him. He does the same.

Suddenly, I remember my promise to call Mom if something happens. "Can I use your phone?" I ask America, suddenly sober. He notices my mood change, and he nods, pointing out the direction of the landline. I nod in thanks and dial my home phone number.

Mom picks up on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Hi, Mom. It's Issa."

"Issa?" she repeats, suddenly sounding worried. "What's wrong?"

"Well...Something came up..." I pause before delivering the blow. "I don't think I'll be home for a while..."

"Wh—why?!" she asks.

"The guy who brought me home yesterday, Arthur Kirkland, he was taken by the same guy who took me. I'm at one of his friend's house right now. Arthur was making a video diary when he was taken, and the guy was asking where I was..." I tell her. She is silent for a few minutes, and I hear her breath turn ragged. I almost start crying as well as I continue. "Listen to me. This is going to hard, but you have to do it. Okay?" I wait for her shaky consent, and tell her, "I need you to forget about me."

"What?!" she exclaims. "No, no! I—"

"Mom, listen to me!" I order over her protests. "What if he traces me back to you? I need you to just make the trail harder to find. Stop talking about me, take all the pictures of me down, and always keep my door closed. C—can you do that for me?"

"No. Absolutely not."

"Mom, don't you think this's hard for me too?!" I cry out. "I just want you and Renae to be safe! I'm safe here, but you're not! Please, please, just forget about me."

"...All right..." she chokes out. I can tell she's crying.

"I have to go," I tell her, because this is upsetting me and I really don't want to cry.

"No—please, Issa! Don't you dare hang up this phone!"

I force out a strangled, "I love you," before disconnecting the call. When I turn around again, I'm alone. I send out a grateful telepathatic message to them for giving me some privacy.

I lean against the wall and cover my mouth with my hand. I can feel my lips curling back in my "I'm about to cry" face. My body starts shaking from compressed sobs, and I feel my face get wet with tears. Slowly, I slide down the wall until my knees are pressing my elbow against my chest.

I know the others are somewhere near. They're probably looking into here with pity. I don't care right now. As long as they keep their distances, I'll be fine.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The rest of the day is uneventful. No one questioned me about my little episode, which I'm thankful for. America, Zack, and surprisingly Canada gave up on trying to teach me how to play Call of Duty. Canada is boss at that game. I just don't understand it. It's fun to watch, but I just can't do it. I laugh as Canada's character takes out both America's and Zack's characters in one spray of bullets. They both whine and claim he cheated somehow. He reminds them that it's a video game, and therefore you can't cheat. Unless you know cheat codes. Which I'm pretty sure Canada's memorized.

"You suck," Zack mutters playfully at him. He only raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, and then continues sniping other characters.

I yawn from my place on the couch. Mr. Kumajirou, who's sitting on my lap, yawns too. Canada notices, then he does it too. Then Zack, and then America.

"Yawns are contagious," I inform them sweetly, like they don't already know that.

"It's only ten-thirty!" America protests. "And besides, we all still need to watch this!" He holds up a DVD of Paranormal Activity.

Canada shrugs at it; I think he'll stay up just because he likes to be included. Zack nods eagerly, but I go, "No thanks."

"Aww, why?" he whines.

"I just can't do horror," I protest. "I have, like, this overactive imagination, and anything that scares me will give me nightmares for weeks on end."

He pouts, but he goes, "Fine then. I'll show you your room."

I nod and follow him. "By the way," I say as we're walking down the hallway, "don't come crying to me at three in morning because the movie scared you."

"I won't!" he protests indignantly. "I'm the hero, and heroes aren't afraid of anything!"

"Whatever you say." I shake my head and smile to myself.

"You can have that one," America tells me, pointing at a closed door.

"Thanks," I tell him. "For everything."

"Aw, no prob," he dismisses, ruffling my hair. "Nighty night, scardy-pants."

"We'll see who the scardy-pants is later," I say, pointing an accusing finger at him. "Good night."

I walk in the room. It's not American flag patterned, which I like. Two walls are tan and two are red. The bed is in the corner of the red walls. On one of the tan walls, there's an electric keyboard, and on the other tan one, there's a red dresser. The bedspread is orange, red, and yellow, and its pattern is acorns and leaves and stuff like that. I really like it; it reminds me of my room.

Anyway, I'm worn out completely, and I flop on the bed. Without doing more than taking off my shoes, I slip under the covers fully clothed and fall asleep.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

England stands chained against the wall. A bruise is forming on his jaw, and it's obvious he's exhausted: his eyelids droop slightly over his emerald eyes, and he has purple bags forming under them. The way he is chained is effective for long-term torture: he has to keep standing, because the chains don't reach the ground, and if he tried to sit, all of the stress would go to his arms and wrists.

From behind wherever I am standing, a door opens. I can't turn around, or shut my eyes or anything. I have to watch.

England looks up with a tired half-scowl on his face. When he sees the person, he mutters something unintelligible. There's a sound like something being picked up. England's eyes widen, but he sets his jaw and looks determined. A few seconds of silence, and then—

CRACK.

The person behind me sends a whip against England's chest. For half a second that seems like forever to me, nothing happens but the light green shirt he's wearing getting ripped. Then, scarlet blood forces its way out of the gash. England makes a little gasping noise, but nothing more than that. Before I can think, the person cracks the whip again, and then again, and then again still. Each time, England lets a small noise escape him. They seem measured at first, controlled, but they're getting louder.

I want to scream, to yell at the person to stop, to run out and put myself in front of the chained nation, but I can't. I can't move. I can't talk. I can't even breathe.

"You know where she is," the person says accusingly. I already know who "She" is.

"I do indeed," England responds impishly, wincing. He's acting like a stereotypical teenage boy: sullen, sarcastic, and avoiding the question.

The person lets the whip fly again. This time, the little rock on the end digs across his stomach. "Where is she?"

"I'm not telling you!" England yells, in obvious pain.

The person behind me is silent, and he seems to be picking something else up. His footsteps come closer, and then he's in view.

It's Germany.

Germany has a syringe in his hand, and it's full of a glutinous purple liquid. He holds it up for England to see. "This," he says smoothly, "is chloromonoxide. Insanity potion."

His victim's expression doesn't change, but I see a flicker of fear in his eyes—and evidentially, so does he. "So what?" England asks, not lacking in the teenage attitude.

"So, I'm going to use it on you unless you tell me where she is."

England pretends to think about it. "Hm..." he muses. "If I go insane, you won't have a reliable source."

"Oh, don't worry about my sources, England," Germany says maliciously. "You'll crack before the full insanity takes place. And when you do, the antidote is right here." He adds with an evil smirk, "Any time the pain gets too unbearable, just tell me where the girl is." And in one fluid motion, he brings the point of the syringe into England's neck, pressing the plunger with his thumb.

England remains silent, but he shakes his head, trying to get the psychotic German away from him. Germany leaves the room, and he locks the door after exiting.

I can see England's muscles going. He's stiffening, but because of his own will or whatever that just was, I don't know. One small body part after another, he begins twitching: first one finger, then several, then all of them. Then his feet, which cause shaking to the rest of him. The worst part is his moaning. It was only a few whimpers every now and then at first, but they grew to nearly screams.

I think I'm screaming too, which I don't get. I couldn't hear myself at all before. I'm also shaking. Why?

"Issa! It's okay! You're just having a nightmare!" someone whisper-yells in my ear. Their hands are on my shoulders, roughly shaking me awake.

I jerk my eyes open and simultaneously draw in a shaky gasp. "N-no!" I shout without thinking.

"Hey, it's okay, you're okay!" the person tells me again.

"Wh—who—?" I manage.

"It's only me," America says.

"Am—America..." I echo slowly. Something wet falls on my hand. Bemusedly, I raise a trembling hand to my face and find it wet with tears. Sheepishly, I rub my cheek against my shoulder. Just another stupid nightmare... I tell myself. But...Something about that...it wasn't just a stupid nightmare...This one was different. I can't quite place my finger on it, though...

I really hope this is just a ruse brought on by my evil little subconscious. There's no way that actually happened to England. He's fine.

"What's wrong?" Through the dull light of a night-light I didn't see earlier, America sits next to me.

"I—I dreamed England..." I tell him. "G-Germany was t-torturing him."

"...Why would you dream something like that?!" America asks, his voice a little bit shrill.

"I didn't dream it on purpose!" I object.

"W—well, it was just a dream. R-right?"

I nod, even though I don't really believe it. I wait for a few seconds for America to say goodnight and leave, but he shifts awkwardly.

"Uhm..." he says.

I have to hold back a laugh. "You're afraid of the movie, aren't you?" I guess.

"No!" America says indignantly. "I—I was just— My hero senses were sensing and stuff that you were having a nightmare, so I'm here to save you."

"Oh, okay," I laugh. I think I know what he's going to say next.

"So, I'm going to sleep right here with you to keep you safe. 'Cause, y'know, I'm the hero and I can protect you from stuff like that," he says while lying down on top of the covers.

"Don't try anything," I mutter while lying down again. I know he won't, though. He's just scared, but he's too prideful to admit it. He wouldn't do anything that would make me send him away. Even so, I position myself on my side, facing away from him.

In the span of a few minutes, America falls asleep. I'm almost about to drift off when his arms—which are very strong (and I mean that in a help-he's-crushing-me kind of way)—wrap around my stomach and pull me closer to him. In sync to that, he starts snoring. Like a freaking chainsaw.

Great, I think sarcastically as America continues to spoon me and snore in my ear, This is going to be a very long night...

Hi guys chloromonoxide isn't real. Art and Soul made up the fancy name, but I made it. It's supposed to hurt you so much, you go insane. That's why I called it Insanity Potion- because if you get it injected in you, you go insane without the antidote. Kaythanksbye