I've actually got the majority of rough drafts for the rest of the story done. Sooo, future updates shouldn't take long for the rest of this thing. :D … This fic should not be fun to write. What the hell is wrong with me? XD
Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine.
Yeah... Russia had definitely gotten away. After running after him for a while, America had finally given up, and turned around to return to the others.
That hadn't worked so well either. Especially since he was no longer certain he was even traveling in the right direction, with no landmarks or anything to go by. And how long had he been gone? It was doubtful they had remained behind and waited, anyway.
"Damn trees!" America leveled a kick at one of the offending pines, which would have uprooted it had his normal strength been intact. "Now what?" Fucking Russia. Thanks to him, America was lost and alone, the mental image of Russia coldly and efficiently gunning down his own sister burned into his brain.
It was turning out to be a pleasant afternoon. Finland had made himself at home on the bed he had claimed for himself the other day, in one of the upstairs bedrooms, book in hand. The lady(?) of the house had a vast collection of romance novels, and it was either that or cookbooks. So Finland read about just how much the heroine hated the man she had recently met, as if readers were going to be fooled into thinking they wouldn't end up together.
Sweden sat nearby on the floor, printer paper scattered before him, pencil in hand. He was sketching drawings of the dog and child they had left back home—and oh, they were so grateful Sealand was not recognized as a country, and was not at the meeting! If he had come anyway, like Prussia had...
Best not to think about it. Sealand hadn't snuck into the meeting, he was safe, and someone else would care for him and the dog.
Raucous laughter reached his ears from somewhere down the hall, and Finland smiled, wondering what the others were up to. Probably something stupid that had originated from Denmark. He'd have to go see what was so amusing, once he reached a good stopping point. He breathed in deep and returned to the novel.
Finland wrinkled his nose. What was that? He took another breath through his nose, scowling.
"Hm?" Sweden said, glancing over.
"It stinks," Finland said. "Like..." Another breath. His eyes widened. "Like smoke!" He tossed the book aside and scrambled out of bed, Sweden right behind him as he raced for the stairwell. The smell of smoke increased, as did the sound of the roar of fire.
Finland froze at the base of the stairs, gaping down at the nightmare below. Flames licked at the curtains, danced along the couch. A wave of heat hit his face at the same moment as a cloud of smoke and Finland coughed, backing away. "We have to get out of here." He turned, running back down the hallway. "Fire!"
"What?" Denmark's head poked out from a door at the end. "Fire? Where?"
"The whole living room!" Finland said. "What did you do? Leave candles going?"
"Me?" Denmark shook his head, sniffing the air curiously and wrinkling his nose.
"Was something left plugged in?" Norway asked, shoving out past Denmark. They had been thrilled to find that appliances still worked, even if phones and internet didn't. Had it come back to bite them in the ass?
"No," Sweden said. "Nothin' plugged in."
As one, they spun around as a crash came from the bedroom window. "What the hell?" Denmark exclaimed. He stooped over, picking up the rock that had been flung through the window. They hadn't put as much effort into boarding up second story windows, leaving plenty of gaps.
"Why would..." Finland trailed off as something else was tossed in, through the hole the rock had made. Whoever was throwing things at them had good aim. He watched in open-mouthed horror as the flaming bottle smashed to the floor, its liquid contents bursting into flame. The group ran from the room with cries of alarm.
"We have to get the hell out!" Denmark said, barging into Iceland's room. "Out of the way! We're going out the window!"
"What's going on?" Iceland demanded.
"Some jackass is tossing in molotov cocktails!" Denmark grasped one of the couple boards nailed over the window and tugged. "The first floor's on fire and this one's about to be."
Iceland bowed his head. "I see..."
"We're not giving up yet!" Denmark flung the first board aside and started on the second. "Just give me a moment." If they hadn't boarded themselves in, they could have run downstairs, avoided the flames, and out the door.
"Whoever it is will be waiting for us..." Norway said.
"So we'll kill him," Finland said. "There's five of us, we've got a couple weapons."
"Right!" Denmark finally shoved the window open and leaned out. He slowly leaned back in, turning with a grim expression. "Fuck..."
"A two story fall won't kill you!" Norway snapped.
"It might..."
The other four gathered closer to the window, looking out. The ground was now covered in spikes—somebody had driven wooden stakes into the earth surrounding their house. They exchanged horrified looks. They were trapped in their house...
"No way." Norway pushed them aside, easing one leg over the windowsill. "It's either burn or suffocate to death in here, or maybe impale ourselves. I'll take the maybe."
Denmark grabbed his arm, blue eyes wide with fright. "No way!" he repeated. "Don't you fucking dare!"
Norway jerked his arm away, almost losing his balance and toppling out the window. "Better than just giving up and dying in here. I'll get rid of the stakes. Then the rest of you can follow."
Denmark grabbed him again—no, he was just placing a hand on his shoulder, looking sad. Norway placed a hand atop Denmark's, smiling at him. Finland coughed again, and Norway grimaced and turned. "Here I go." He took a deep breath and pushed himself over the edge. The others looked away, unable to watch or breathe.
A wail of pain told them it had not been a successful endeavor. Finland buried his face in Sweden's chest, tears spilling down his cheeks. He had known Norway wouldn't make it. He had known! They had been happy—as happy as possible, anyway—just a few moments ago. How could everything have changed so quickly?
Denmark and Iceland were at the window, staring down and shouting. Finland didn't want to look. He could still hear Norway's whimpers and cries of pain. Finland shuddered. He jerked upright with a gasp at the sound of gunfire from below. Norway's cries abruptly stopped.
"Stóri bróðir!" Iceland wailed, calling miserably for his brother.
"Who?" Sweden demanded hoarsely.
Denmark slowly shook his head, expression murderous. "Didn't see..."
"Wh-what do we do...?" Iceland said, finally pulling his eyes away from the window. Nobody had an answer. And then another flaming bottle sailed through the window and they fled, scattering throughout the second floor. The fumes from the inferno below choked them, the roar of the flames growing closer. Finland found himself in another bedroom (big family? Guest room?), huddling on the bed, trembling. Norway was dead, and they were trapped. He had known they would be dead by tomorrow, but to suddenly be confronted by death...
A scream came from down the hall. Finland couldn't discern who it was. He curled up tighter, feeling helpless. Maybe they should have stayed outside, where their enemies would be flesh and blood, people they could fight, where they weren't sitting ducks. Maybe he and Sweden should have gone through with their suicide, died quickly and cleanly.
A not-too-distant crash made Finland jump. Another scream. He closed his eyes and wished he could wake up. Something smashed into his side and he yelped, eyes snapping open, and he only had a second to realize it was one of the flaming bottles before the pain struck him as the burning liquid spread over him, clothes bursting into flame. Finland shrieked, stumbling back. He flung himself to the floor, rolling, but the fire clung to him. It spread around the room, eating at the furniture and at him. Finland screamed, throat raw as it was seared. His nostrils filled with the smell of smoke and cooking meat, his flesh charring and splitting. Other screams reached his ears. He was dimly able to make out Sweden's cry of pain, and possibly calling his name, before Finland collapsed and his consciousness fled.
England's eyes snapped open. When had he fallen asleep? Where... oh. He had no time for the disorientation that midday naps frequently caused, seeing as how a man was standing over himself and the still-sleeping Canada, weapon raised.
England reacted without thinking, diving into their attacker's legs and taking him down. They tumbled to the grass, England scrambling for the weapon, but the other man was able to keep it away.
"Get off me!" the attacker growled.
England made another grab for the weapon. "Prussia?"
"I wasn't going to hurt you!"
"The hell you weren't!" They both rolled to their feet. Prussia stepped closer to England, so he took a few additional steps away, further from Canada, who was rousing from his sleep. Canada... "You bastard! You were his friend! How could you?"
"What?" Prussia glanced toward Canada. "Of course we're friends! That's why I was standing guard, I saw that the two of you had fallen asleep, and-"
"Yeah right!" As if England would believe a flimsy excuse like that. He had seen the raised weapon...
"What's going on?" Canada gazed blearily around, eyes finally falling on the pair. He gasped. "Prussia!"
"It's not what it looks like!"
Canada reached a hand toward his bag—going for his knife, England realized. He obviously didn't believe Prussia, either, seeing as how he was confronting England with a bloodstained sickle. "How could you?" he demanded, echoing England.
"For fuck's sake! I wasn't trying to kill you!"
"Who else have you killed?" England demanded, inching further away from Canada, trying to draw Prussia away. He didn't want the boy getting involved if he didn't have to.
"No one! This wasn't originally my weapon!"
"Whose was it, then?"
"Ah..." Prussia looked back and forth between them, chewing on his lower lip. He was unable to come up with a lie.
"Right." England continued to edge away, pleased that Prussia followed. His eyes flickered back toward Canada. He had to lure their attacker elsewhere. He'd be damned if he was going to let some goddamned former country try and kill one of his boys. What could he say to convince Prussia to chase him? Some clever insult, something from the days of Captain Kirkland that would enrage Prussia and leave him no choice but to want only England dead. "You can't catch me, you stupid wanker." Okay, so it had been a while. But England turned and ran, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Prussia followed. He did.
"England! Wait!"
England didn't. He did not rest until they were a safe distance away. Once assured that Canada, at least, was out of danger, England stopped and whirled to confront his attacker.
"I can't believe you just left him—oh, fuck it," Prussia snarled. "I am so sick of dealing with your crazy shit! Your whole fucked up 'family' is mad! I've put up with it enough!"
England had no idea what the hell Prussia was going on about. Except that he had insulted his family. Eyes narrowed, England dove after Prussia, who was able to sidestep at the last minute and send England sprawling to the ground. Knowing what would come, he quickly rolled aside, just as the sickle blade was driven into the dirt where his head had been. England kicked out blindly, smiling grimly when his leg came in contact with his opponent and Prussia gave an 'oof' as he fell.
England scrambled to his feet, hoping to attack Prussia and get the weapon away from him before he regained his footing, but Prussia was too quick. They eyed each other warily. Prussia shrugged—England could practically see his thoughts, Hey, I'm armed, he's not—and England dove to the side as Prussia attacked, sickle swinging. He grimaced as he felt it cut a shallow slice along his side, but it was nothing major. England stumbled, but took the opportunity to grab a rock, which he flung at Prussia's head.
"Ow! Dammit, that stung."
"So sorry." England went for the weapon again, grabbing at the handle. Prussia jerked away, and they went down together. England took the opportunity to punch him in the face.
"Ow. Get the fuck off me, you goddamn psycho," Prussia growled.
"Stop calling me the crazy one," England said, trying for another punch, but Prussia jerked his head aside and he ended up punching the ground with a wince. "Or the rest of my family!"
"You're attacking an armed man, while insisting he's the attacker! And France..."
"We all know what France is," England muttered. Pervert did not equal crazy.
"And have you ever watched a hockey game with Canada? And as for America..."
"Just shut up already!" England ducked his head toward Prussia's armed hand, biting down hard. Prussia yelped in pain as blood dripped from the wound on the back of his hand, and down England's chin. In that split second of pain, England was able to pry the sickle loose. He didn't give Prussia any time to recover. He brought the sickle down, hard, blade driving through Prussia's eye and into his brain with a crunch of breaking skull.
"Holy shit..." England mumbled staring down at the gory scene he had caused. He swallowed back bile, grimacing. Prussia had attacked them. It couldn't be helped. England stood, hunching over to grasp the handle and yanked the blade free of Prussia's head. The sight that caused made England take a moment to violently empty his stomach before staggering upright.
It occurred to England, as he headed back to fetch Canada, that of everyone who had killed in that game, he was the only one who had gotten jack shit for his trouble. No new land, nothing. He could have laughed, if he didn't feel like crying instead.
And when England returned to the clearing they had rested in, he found... nothing. His own bags were in the nook he had hidden them in, but Canada was gone.
Wonderful.
12 nations remaining