Author's Note: Weeell, so much for not finishing this before I leave next week. I guess I just can't help it when a muse comes and sits on my stomach, whining until I write what it says.

So, anyway, enjoy. And review. If your attention span has lasted through this long stretch of long chapters, I think you can handle the multitasking.

And of course, thank you for previous reviews. :D

Canada

I've been on this island for two weeks now. Fourteen days. Fourteen days ago, I was waking up in a hotel. Preparing myself for the meeting. Hoping my presentation's going to go well and impress the others. Trying not to spill syrup or pancake on my business suit. Wondering if Newfie's feeding Kumajiro enough for breakfast. And now I'm starving, on the run because I bludgeoned England to death.

But I shouldn't be dwelling on that every second out here, so I won't. Because I'm trying to get out of here alive, and I can't let my guard down, and I still haven't found any decent food, and I just can't let myself worry about that right now, so I won't. I won't.

Still rubbing some sleep out of my eyes, I continue to trudge through the trees, trying hard to find food. At least that gets to be my priority instead of water. I had plenty during the rainstorm, and I actually managed to save up a decent pipeful in this thing. It leaks a little bit where America bent it up, but it holds a lot of water, and it's about empty now, anyway. There are puddles everywhere now, but it doesn't hurt to keep a little extra in here. It's a little more like drinking from a cup, too. And there's not any blood or mold or anything on the inside, so it shouldn't hurt me. It's a lot more likely to hurt others...

I'm pretty sure it's going to do that, though. I'm all alone now, so I can't rely on America to do the heavy hitting for me. On that note, I haven't been able to honestly sleep because if someone finds me, I'm dead. And people will find me because I'm just visible now. That fact alone is enough to terrify me more, because who knows if I'm mortal already now? So, everyone's out to kill me, they will be able to find me and kill me, if they kill me I'll stay dead, if I don't kill the right one of them I'll probably die of starvation anyway, and I... I'm just worried sick. My hands won't even stop shaking. Nor will they loosen their grip on the pipe. I can let go if I need to, but if I'm not paying attention, soon enough I'll be clenching it hard enough my fingers bleed.

...As I am now. I try to loosen up a little, and I wince as the sides of my nail tips stop digging into the skin. I'm in pretty pitiful shape. My nails are caked with blood and dirt, my collar's soaked in blood, and a few extra splashes of red are across the front of my dress shirt courtesy of England. I have rips and scratches all over, my glasses are bent crooked courtesy of Russia, my hair's in total disorder, and I need a shave. I've lost weight, I've lost sleep, and I'm roaming and shaking like a confused old man. I must look like a raving lunatic right about now.

The sad part is, I'm getting there. I've already broken down screaming at England from hunger, I've had a few scattered breakdowns about my immortality fleeing, and of course I broke up England's skull with a pipe. And he's not going to be the last one, either. Because I'm not home. And if I don't go home, I killed England for no reason. And I can't live with that, so I have to go home, which according to The Rules means I have to kill my nation. So I have to kill my nation. And there's no way to tell which one it is, so I just have to kill everyone I come across until I find him. And it's horrible, but it's the only way this can be somewhat right, and I don't want to die here, either. So I have to do this. It's my only choice.

Trying to quit shaking so hard, I continue stalking through the trees. Hopefully my stomach's not growling as loudly as it seems to me. I don't want anybody to find me, and I doubt I'll find food soon, anyway. I haven't had any luck since I left the alliance. And that was... four days ago? My gosh... I really am going to starve if I don't make it home soon...

I give up on being less jittery and keep going. I still have to stop and rest, taking what sips I can from the inverted pipe, especially when the temperature starts to climb. By noon, I can't stand my shirt on me anymore and take it off after a frantic sweep of the surroundings. I can't have someone sneaking up on me while the pipe's not in both hands...

I tie the sleeves around my waist and get back to walking. It's only a few more minutes before I hear something. A rattling of bullets. Paranoid, I look around for the culprit and feel myself over to make sure I wasn't hit. But I find nothing. They didn't sound all that close, anyway. I-I just wanted to be safe...

I look around again, feeling more blood welling up under my fingers, and then set off. Not a whole minute passes before the gun goes off again, and I end up going through the same ritual. Still no damage, still no gunman. It's fine. I'm fine...

Eventually I get back to walking, without any more gunshots sounding off. I guess whoever was firing killed the other one. Or two.

—Don't let any of them be my nations! I have to kill him first! What am I doing, walking? I have to hurry, before everyone dies and I'm left here to starve because I couldn't find my nation in time, and I murdered England...

Suddenly feeling like crying, I pick up the pace. It's okay. It's going to be fine. Three dead at most, and one of them isn't my nation, anyway. Surely I can find the right nation in time. I just have to keep up the pace and kill everyone, and I'll be fine. Everything'll be fine.

I've rested twice more before I finally see a figure through the trees. Clinging to the pipe with colorless knuckles, I carefully draw forward until I can make out who it is. Romano. He's slumped up against a tree. No gun, nothing else. Just a sleeping nation perfectly ready for me to kill.

I step out to where he could see me, if his eyes were open. I'm unable to take very quick steps toward him, but I advance, trembling arms holding the pipe up above my head. Am I really doing this? Am I really going to kill him? D-Do I really have to...

Kill him or you're dead!

Gasping, I close in, raising my weapon a little further.

Then Romano wakes up. Eyelids shooting open, he sees me standing over him immediately. I frantically bring the pipe down, but he rolls out of the way swearing and shoots to his feet. He takes off, and I pivot and come after him. I can't let him get away. I have to kill him now.

Struggling to keep the pipe ready to swing, I keep after Romano, but the distance between us is increasing.

Don't you dare let him get away!

I try to clip him with a swing, but I can't reach far enough. He pivots and sprints off in another direction, and I turn after him, but the mud gives way under my feet. With a shout, I come crashing to the ground, the back of my head hitting hard on a root. Biting my cheek in pain, I struggle to figure out how to get back up. Hurry up! Hurry up—he's getting away! You have to kill him, or you murdered England! Or you're dead!

I finally push myself to my feet and, gasping from exertion and fear, take off after where I think he went. But I can't see him ahead, and he's not in the trees, either. No, no, no. He can't have gotten away. No. No, no, no...

I-I can still get him. I just... Where is he going next? He's running away right now, and then... If he's stayed back there for a while, he'd probably go back, right? After all, I should be running blindly in the last direction I saw him, so there wouldn't be any reason to suspect I could end up back there. So, where have I been running...?

I go in the opposite direction of my skid marks and follow the footprints, trying to figure out which tree he had been sleeping against. He probably sank into the mud a little, so it should be easy to find...

After a minute, I find a promising indent. After standing around it for a minute, I suddenly realize he'll see me if I do that. I have to hide. So it would probably be best to get up in the tree here and pounce when he comes back, right? Okay. Let's do that.

I'm looking for a branch to start when I first see a figure collapsed on the ground. After immediately taking shelter from it behind the tree for a minute, I dare to peek back. It's certainly not Romano back yet. I'm not sure who it is from here, but he's... purple. Green and purple. And a little pink around the ragged hole in his back. And a little white—no... That's just... m-maggots...

I try as hard as I can not to throw up. What the... What is that? It's not a nation. It couldn't possibly be a nation. I-it's just some human that somehow ended up here. The Rules never said there weren't any humans. Maybe it's the guy who wrote The Rules. S-so, if he's dead, that's a good thing, right? And maybe they're not working anymore?

After making sure no one else is in sight, I dare to draw a little closer, just to figure out what in the world a man's rotting corpse is doing here. There aren't many clues—he's face-down, not wearing a shirt or even shoes. But I can see, where his slacks have slid back a bit, a little bit of his underwear. They have a tomato pattern.

Haha, well, that's unusual, eh...? I would probably expect something like that from... Spain. But... Well, I guess the hair looks about right for Spain, too, but... Haha...

I slowly stand back up, glance over to see if Romano's shown up, and take off running in no particular direction but away from the nation's corpse.

Spain is dead. Spain has been dead for days. Spain's been rotting for days. Spain's not coming back. Nobody's coming back, England's not coming back, I wouldn't come back, we're all mortals, we're all as good as dead, I'm as good as dead, I'm going to die here and I murdered my big brother.

There's still a chance. You're not dead yet.

I-I guess... B-But I'm lost now. I just missed my chance to kill Romano.

He probably wasn't your nation, anyway.

Yeah, that's right. I should be targeting nations closer to me, right? Like... France. Somehow he's still here, having run like a coward after chopping my head off. ...And it's not as if I've done anything like that. But, you know, I've already murdered one big brother—who's to say I can't get the other? We're all going to die, anyway! Why not, huh?

Of course, I don't know where he is. But I can track him down. Just sweep the island, see if any vineyards are hiding somewhere. Ha!

I keep wandering off to wherever I'm going, taking a second to scoop up water in the pipe and swig it. So, I'll hunt down France, and if it's not him, I guess I'll have to go for America. But if we're human, what do I have to fear from him? We'd be about the same strength, and I have the weapon. So I'll just kill them and everybody, and, if I don't go home after that, what's it matter—I knew I was going to die, anyway. It all works out perfectly!

Wishing it wasn't so insanely hot, I sit down by a decent-sized puddle and drink. Not from my hands—they're not clean, and they're actually giving off more heat than the pipe at the moment. And I need to cool down.

I drain most of the puddle through ingestion and then sprinkle the less clear dregs over me. Ready to move on, I push myself to my feet and look for enemies.

America is standing right next to me.

I jump, scrambling to get the pipe back in a ready-to-use position.

America just stands there smiling, casually resting a baseball bat over his shoulder. "I think we need to talk." He only moves the bat a fraction closer to a swinging position before I turn and bolt.

"Canada!"

Wondering where that "I'm just as strong as him" attitude went, I gasp for breath and keep running. It doesn't matter how strong he is, he's still going to kill me for killing England, and I'll stay dead. And I can't beg him not to hurt me because I'll die, because England died, too, and that would be justice, and America's going to kill me after all, and I'm never, ever coming back...

The forest gets a little less blurry as tears spill over my cheeks. Why do I have to die? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to, I don't know what I was doing, and... a-and... Please don't hurt me... I'm sorry...

Feeling cold, I look over my shoulder to see how soon my demise is going to be. But I don't see America. My gaze snaps forward to see if he's come around in front of me, but he's not there, either. Daring—and needing—to slow down, I look everywhere, but I can't see any sign of my brother. I come to a stop, checking bushes, tree branches, anything. But he's not here.

Did... Did he just run off somewhere else? Did he forget me? Please tell me he forgot me! If I'm still forgettable, then maybe...

...Where did he get the baseball bat...? He didn't have one before... There wouldn't be one out here... He couldn't just make one out here, not out of aluminium... And why was he yelling my name, when he never said anything chasing me the first time...?

He... was never really there, was he...?

I stand here panting, alone. After running after someone who never tried to harm me, running from a dead body, and running from nothing. Because I'm scared and mortal, and I've completely lost my mind.

I make sure no one's coming for me, silently sit down, wrap my arms around my knees, and cry.