Author's Note/Disclaimer: This chapter was fun. The next one, however, will be even more so, trust me.
I do not own Hetalia. If I did, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction of it.
The latest revelations on the mysterious 'Charles', but lack of new information on the organization he was apparently running left many of the nations confused and flustered as they left the world meeting building. Granted, they had devised a plan that would hopefully resolve the issue, but many left the meeting with more questions than when they had arrived. Unfortunately, nobody had the answers at the moment, so all that could be done was for everyone to return home.
England and Scotland took a taxi to the airport in Berlin. After checking in, going through security, and a short wait in the terminal, the two nations were on a flight back to Britain. Neither nation spoke to the other at all through the entire flight; Scotland merely sat in grim silence and stared out the window while England scribbled on a piece of scrap paper. He ended up going through several pieces of paper before the flight landed.
When their plane finally came to a stop in the terminal, England and Scotland exited the plane, heading directly to baggage claim. While waiting for their luggage to show up on the carousel, England phoned his boss.
"Any leads on my stolen books?" England asked.
"Some witnesses have given us some descriptions of a possible suspect," the Prime Minister replied.
"Is there only one suspect?" England asked.
"So far," was the reply.
"What does he look like?"
"Well, our information so far is somewhat vague, but the man is just under six feet tall, and was wearing a black business suit. Dark hair."
England rolled his eyes. He should have expected as much, but a description like that wasn't going to help much.
"Thank you, sir."
"Is there anything else we need to discuss?"
"Yes, but it's top secret; I can't give details over the phone, I'm afraid."
"I see. I'll arrange a private meeting right away."
"Thank you. We'll be heading to my house first, though. Schedule the meeting for tomorrow."
There was a slight pause before the Prime Minister spoke. "9:00 tomorrow morning, then."
"All right then." England hung up.
Scotland returned from the carousel with his suitcase in hand. England went to retrieve his own suitcase, then the two left the airport. Almost an hour of London traffic later, and the two nations finally pulled up outside England's house. A Scotland Yard detective was standing outside the building as if he had been waiting for them. England got out of the car first.
"Good afternoon, sir," England said.
"Are you Arthur Kirkland, the man who lives here?" the detective asked.
"I am," England replied, but he pulled out his identification just in case the detective didn't believe him.
"Who is this?" the detective asked, gesturing to Scotland, who had just walked up.
"My brother, Sean," England said. He glanced at Scotland, then back at the detective. "He came down from Edinburgh the other day to visit; he was with me at the time the break-in occurred."
The detective nodded. England went up to the door of his house. He glanced at the detective, and when the detective didn't say anything, England let himself in. Scotland and the detective followed.
"Beg pardon, sir, but what is your name?" England asked as they entered the foyer.
"Detective Robertson," the detective replied.
"Thank you, Mr. Robertson," England said. He led the group directly to the flight of stairs that led to the basement. "How did the thief get in?"
"When police arrived, they found the front door unlocked," Robertson replied. "Given the lack of damage to the house, we assume that's how he got in."
England frowned as he opened the door to the stairs. "I always lock the door," he said. "And there's only one key, and it's in my possession."
"Good lockpick then," Robertson said.
The three men made their way into the basement. England went straight to the shelf where some of his spellbooks were kept. Somewhat to his surprise, there were books there. Upon close inspection of the covers, England noticed that these were indeed the authentic leather covers of his spellbooks. He picked one volume from off the shelf and opened it.
"What… the hell?"
Scotland and the detective walked over.
"What's the problem?" Scotland asked.
He leaned over and looked at the page England had the book open to. Scotland arched an eyebrow, now realizing why England had reacted the way he did.
"Methinks someone's a wee bit touched in the head?" Scotland said.
England turned the page. "Clearly…" he replied.
"What is it?" Robertson asked.
England held the open book for the detective to see.
"This is the actual cover of one of the books that was stolen," England said, closing the book and showing the cover. "But… the contents…" England reopened the book.
It was the detective's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Those are not the original contents, I take it?"
England nodded.
"So… the thief has put the cover back, but with different pages in place… pages from a cookbook, apparently."
The three men could only stare dumfounded at the book.
My spellbook has been turned into a cookbook, England thought. Seriously… what the hell?
(-)
America and Canada took the same flight back to JFK International. The plane had a smooth takeoff, and within a few minutes of reaching the cruising altitude of about 30,000 feet, the pilot turned off the seatbelt sign.
Canada paid no attention; he was settled comfortably in his seat with a book. America removed his seatbelt, but stayed in his seat. He reached into his pockets and retrieved an iPod, placing the earbuds in his ears and turning the music on. Presently, a stewardess came down the aisle, serving some snacks and beverages. Canada and America each took just a glass of water. The stewardess continued making her way down the aisle; Canada returned to his book; and America to his music.
A few hours later into the flight, America got up to use the restroom. When he returned to his seat, however, he noticed his head hurt slightly. Blaming the air pressure in the cabin, America decided to ignore it, although he did take out a piece of gum and start chewing on it; he'd heard that chewing gum helped alleviate headaches related to air pressure. He relaxed in his seat, chewing gum and listening to music.
When the gum finally lost its flavor, America noticed his headache was not going away. If anything, it had gotten slightly worse. Idly wondering if maybe there was something going on in his country that might have started the headache, America leaned back in his chair and tried to focus on finding the source of the trouble. He mentally ran through every state, looking and listening to his people to see if anything had come up.
Nothing did. His people were fine. The only problems he did find, he quickly realized were not connected to the headache. America gave up searching, but his headache slowly intensified. He searched his pockets for painkillers, but couldn't find any. He tapped Canada on the shoulder.
"Alfred? What is it?"
"Do you have any Tylenol or something?"
"Um…"
Canada searched his pockets, but also came up empty.
"Sorry, Al."
America sighed and drank the last of his water. He turned up the volume on his iPod, thinking that the music would make him forget the headache. It didn't. Instead, the pain continued to intensify.
Frustrated, America put his iPod away and got up from his seat. He headed to the restroom again, but when he noticed the sign indicating it was currently occupied, he returned to his seat. Right as he was sitting down, he was almost floored by a sudden, sharp stabbing pain in his temple that hurt much worse than what he'd felt so far. America gripped his head in one hand, biting down hard on his lip so as not to scream in pain.
"Al? You okay?"
America barely even registered the soft, concerned voice of his brother. He slowly turned in the Canadian's direction, still holding his head.
"I have a headache of epic proportions," America said, resting his head against the back of the seat in front of him.
Canada's eyes widened. "What kind of headache?" he asked.
"No idea."
"What do you mean…?" Canada trailed off, thinking back to the emergency meeting in Berlin. Hadn't Lithuania said something about intense headaches caused by the mysterious drugs he'd been given? Was it possible that America was experiencing the same thing right now?
America rubbed his temples in an attempt to lessen the pain. Canada put his book away and leaned closer to his brother, whispering in America's ear so that no one else would hear what he had to say next.
"Check your people, Al."
"I tried that earlier; I know that's not the problem," America replied indignantly, but he kept his voice to a whisper as well.
"Double check anyway."
America relented. He doubted he'd find anything new, but he would humor his brother. It couldn't hurt more than already did, could it? America focused, and tried to mentally run through his country again.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He couldn't hear his people at all.
It was as if he had just walked into an empty, pitch black room. America stumbled around in this void where the voices of his people had been just minutes ago, trying in vain to find them again. He told himself that they had to be in there somewhere; the entire United States couldn't have just disappeared from the map in one instant. The longer his search went on, the more frantic America became. He ran circles in his mind, trying desperately to find something that would reconnect him to the American people. Nothing worked. Eventually, he started to feel dizzy and physically exhausted, but whether that was from his fruitless mental exercise or the headache, America was not sure.
At some point, America's condition had attracted the attention of a flight attendant. The man stood in the aisle next to America's seat, staring at the American in concern.
"Sir? Are you all right?"
Canada answered for his brother. "He's got a terrible headache," he said. "Do you have an icepack or something?"
"I'll see what I can do," the flight attendant replied, and walked away.
America glanced at his brother. "Do you really think that will help?"
"It's better than nothing," Canada replied.
The flight attendant returned with a small icepack in hand. "Here you are, sir."
"Thank you." America took the icepack and immediately pressed it against his left temple, while the flight attendant took off again.
After what felt like hours later, just as the plane was coming in for the landing, America's headache finally faded. It faded slowly; but by the time he and Canada set foot in the terminal, the headache was totally gone. As the brothers headed to baggage claim, America attempted once again to listen for his people, and, much to his relief, he could indeed hear them again. He breathed a visible sigh of relief, which prompted a glance from Canada.
"Are they back?" Canada asked.
"Yes. And the headache's gone," America said.
"That's good," Canada said, but the smile he gave his brother was somewhat apprehensive. He knew something had happened to America back in the enemy base, and Canada couldn't shake the feeling that whatever it was, it was far worse than a mere headache.
Presently, the two arrived at baggage claim. The brothers picked up their luggage, but before they left, America opened his luggage and began looking through it.
"What are you looking for?" Canada asked.
"My phone," America said. "When I realized I didn't have it on me, I was thinking I might have put it in here."
Two minutes of fruitless searching later, and America zipped up the suitcase again. He got up and looked worriedly at his brother.
"It's not in there. I think it's been stolen."
Canada stared incredulously at America. "So… the enemy has it?" he whispered, his eyes going wide. "This isn't good; we need to call your boss right away."
"Thanks, bro, but I can't call my boss while we're in here," America said, dropping his voice to a whisper as well. "I'll call him when we're on the road."
The two brothers then left the building and headed to the parking lot. America quickly located the bright red car he had driven here. He popped the trunk, and he and Canada deposited their luggage. America jumped into the driver's seat and started the engine while Canada got in the passenger side. America pulled out of the lot, and a few minutes later, they were on their way back to America's house.
Twenty minutes into the drive, Canada dug into his pockets and pulled out his phone. He handed the phone over to America, who took one hand off the wheel to hold the phone and slowly dial the number that would connect him to the President.
"Hello, Canada," came the voice of America's boss. "This is unusual for you to call me directly; usually your prime minister does. What is it?"
"Actually, this is America," America said. "I'm borrowing Canada's phone at the moment because mine's been stolen."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes I'm sure," America replied, slightly annoyed that his boss would doubt him.
"All right, well, where are you at the moment?"
"Driving back to my place. Canada and I just got back from the airport."
"And the meeting in London went well, I presume?"
"Actually, that's another reason why I'm calling," America said. "Something big has come up, as in, possibly-a-global-threat type big. It's kind of a long story, but here goes…"