Author's note: Hello! This is my first fanfiction on this website and I'd like to thank you for happening upon it and giving it a chance.

WARNINGS/DISCLAIMERS:

-This story contains scenes of flashbacks depicting violence, war and otherwise graphic themes that may be potentially triggering. These themes will be present throughout the entirety of this fiction. Please be warned.
-This work of fiction is based of and inspired by historical events and figures. Though heavy research was conducted in the making of this story, artistic and creative liberties were taken.
-This story uses the "human"names of the nations (most of which, are canon)
-I do not own Hetalia or its characters and any resemblance to characters living or dead (or fictional) is purely coincidental.

Enjoy!

May 10th, 1940

0355 hrs

Nazi Germany invades the Netherlands.

The distant roar of the approaching German Luftwaffe's plane engines is the only warning the citizens of Rotterdam have of what is to come; the start of a hellish occupation that would last for almost half a decade and bring about the deaths of over 200,000 Dutch natives. What brings about this horror is a blitzkrieg with its sights already locked on its latest target of the Waalhaven airfield just south of the doomed city. Though the Dutch troops who manned the base put up a fierce resistance, it was an effort made in vain. With the element of surprise serving to aid the Germans' cause, the Dutch citizens were easily overpowered by the German forces that sought to conquer.

May 14th, 1940

1330 hrs

The attack on Rotterdam begins.

German troops parachuted from air crafts onto the Dutch lands by the tons. All communications and transportation are the first to go, effectively cutting off all ties to the world and crippling the natives' chances for any outer assistance. The Netherlands—an irritation for the German army's great conquest of France and the world. Ah, yes, with its key ports and waterways would be useful indeed.

Six days is all it takes for Rotterdam to fall into Nazi Germany's hands, utterly and completely. Six days is all it takes to occupy the Third Reich's newest prize.

Netherlands felt the threat of invasion before the enemy even set foot on his land. It was a phenomenon usually experienced by old and oftentimes powerful nations to feel imminent danger before crisis even strikes. This sixth sense of sorts was often acquired by oftentimes powerful, old or even ancient nations who had been forged throughout the ages by the flames of war and destruction to feel the looming threat of disaster long before said disaster took place. It was on this fateful spring day that this warning bell within the Dutch nation rang true.
Holland had been going about his business in his daily routine, running his everyday errands. It had been a rather lovely day and with his groceries purchased and soon to be delivered to his home, he continued his leisurely walk through the marketplace, stopping to smell the roses so to speak. Unable to help himself, he halted to enjoy a fine arrangement of tulips from a florist's stall. After purchasing the bouquet, and accepting the good wishes of the kind elderly woman who ran the stall, he continued on his way. Netherlands made it a habit to have his favourite flower present in his surroundings as much as possible and his beloved tulips as a centerpiece in his home would certainly brighten up his home.

On his trip back home, he felt it—a twinge in his gut, as if a wave of invisible static rolled beneath his skin. It was a vicious pull from within, a sudden chill down his spine without the cold. Netherlands halted mid step and turned his scrutinizing green gaze to the sky. Something was not right. Not in the slightest. With narrowed eyes, he scanned the skies when he felt it again, the twinge. this time strong enough make him stagger back a step. Turning once again to the skies, he searched the empty airspace frantically. He waited. Something was coming. No, something was…here?

Pushing through the narrow streets of the town, Netherlands earned the curious stares of his people as he went, bouquet of fresh tulips clutched firmly in hand. His boots pounded off the cobblestone streets as he hastily weaved his way through the city block to the main square where rooftops did not obscure his view of the skies. Stopping there, a few blocks before the city center, Netherlands once again scanned the empty blue skies—still nothing. He waited, continuing to search the sky above, frustration close to driving him mad. There seemed to be nothing, nothing at all. But then he heard it.

Netherlands' veins filled with ice as the thunderous hum of numerous fighter planes echoed the distance. Of those citizens of Rotterdam who had only moments ago sent questioning glances at the perturbed nation, they too turned their gazes to the skies. The whole populace seemed to take pause, citizens slowing halting dead in their tracks to look to the skies. The surprised gasps around him were lost in the low growing murmur of the crowd surrounding him. It wasn't abnormal to hear the muffled roar of fighter planes crossing Dutch airspace nowadays, but the nagging anxiety that rose in Netherlands told him this was something else.

Netherlands cursed himself under his breath. He should have known. How could he have been so blind? It had been only days before he had felt a similar twinge. He had been going about his daily chores when he felt a sudden flare of anxiety he had chalked up to his OCD. Later, reports that German planes passing over Dutch airspace bound for Britain seemed a reasonable explanation for the twinge, so he dismissed it. It had seemed harmless enough days ago but now, Netherlands was certain he had made a grave misjudgement. Just beyond the city lay the Waalhaven Airfield. Had there been any knowledge of a approaching fighter planes over a civilian population, they would have already been dealt with. But they weren't, which left only the worst to be imagined.

If the enemy had secured Waalhaven, then he could expect the planes approaching were not piloted by anybody friendly.

His face darkened. If his gut feelings were right and his reasoning true, he didn't have much time.

"Officer," barked Netherlands at an idle constable. The young man tore his concerned stare away from the sky with a start but approached once he saw that it was Netherlands who had spoken. Still to slow for Holland, he he stalked over to the young man in uniform in a few long strides and pulled the young man in by the shoulder. Talking in hushed and urgent tones as he ordered, "Round up your men and have them clear the streets immediately—am I understood?" A contained look of horror passed over the officer's face before he nodded.

"Give them order to have the people evacuate the streets now, now!" Holland ordered, shoving the constable forward who in turn ran off to carry out his mission.

Spotting two guards who regularly patrolled the city square and in turn the city hall, Netherlands motioned them over, taking measured steps towards them as they hurried over. "I need you to call on the Colonel—tell him to rally the troops and double all guards," he ordered to one, "and you, report to the mayor immediately. Am I clear? Sound the alarm, do you hear me? Sound the ala—!" the sound of a bombshell colliding into the earth sounded in the distance, the earth shattering explosion echoing several streets over as all hell broke loose.

Crowds scrambled, women screamed and the once bright bouquet of tulips the Dutch nation held lay crumpled and trampled in the dust like the hopes of escaping Nazi invasion unscathed. Netherlands looked on in horror at what appeared to be the beginning of the end as the roar of war planes drowned out all sound.

"GO!" roared Netherlands. His seldom used snapped the two guards out of their terrified daze and had them sprinting to carry out Holland's orders.

A stampede of people fled the square in the midst of the chaos unfolding, tripping in their haste and trampling in their terror. They were under attack—it had to be the Germans. Netherlands cursed under his breath. The whole city was already thrown into a pandemonium but he had to keep a level head for his people. That was something Netherlands could most assuredly do. First, he needed to make certain that the Queen was alerted of the coming air raid. If the Germans were attacking Rotterdam, they could be damn well certain that it was only a matter of time before they set out to conquer the rest of the Hague.

So, Netherlands set his course. He needed to get to the city centre. He had to speak with the mayor, wire the Queen and protect the city. He pushed roughly through the crowds, against the wave of frightened city folk towards sounds of gunfire. Tooth and nail, he fought his way to the direction of the city center beyond the gunfire, when a small cry of distress reached his ears. His sharp green eyes fell to a tiny child, no more than six years of age, who had fallen to the ground. Netherlands snatched her up immediately to save her from being trampled. She wore two bright blue bows in her pig tails and sobbed, tears streaking her chubby cheeks. Briefly, he brushed the dirt off her scraped knee.

"Where is your mother?" His voice only as gentle as a situation such as this could permit him.

In her infantile distress, the girl only cried harder, letting out a watery wail but Holland steeled his patience. Resigned, he hoisted the tiny child above his head to sit her on his broad shoulders. "Do you see her?" The little girl was quiet as he too scanned the crowds for the girl's would be mother. Spotting a distressed looking woman with blonde hair and brown eyes resembling the wayward child, he moved towards the woman no sooner than the child could let out a shout for the woman. Mother spotted child and her brown eyes filled with recognition and relief as she rushed towards the towering nation.

"Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you!" She cried as clutched the child close in her arms.

"Get to safety—now." He said simply and stalked off quickly without another word.

Willem winced when another shell shook the earth and the thunderous boom mingling with the surprised screams of some. Being what he was, every assault on his homeland took a toll on him physically. Netherlands was no human. He did not age nor take ill or suffer injury the same way mankind did. However, nations were one with their land, so every assault upon his earth was a direct assault on him and now, he could feel every shell that hit. It was only getting worse. Now, only a city block away from his destination, Netherlands was met with a strange sight.

The handful of the armed soldiers he had ordered dispatched were face to face with a team of French and Belgian soldiers.

Netherlands watched, sharing the confusion of his men at the strange and sudden appearance of these foreign allied troops. They were six in number and armed to the teeth with sub machine guns and assault rifles. The leader began coaxing the Dutch troops to lower their weapons. Intuition flared in Netherlands yet again and he took to examining the foreigners more closely. Had his allies anticipated this attack and come to intervene? No, he reasoned, if France and Belgium had known, the Germans never would have gotten this far, at least not, without warning. Once more the foreign squadron leader assured the men that they came to aid the city. So, the Dutch soldiers exchanged unsure glances but were ready to finally comply while Netherlands' sharp eyes scanned his allied troopers. It was then that he noticed—the speaker held in his gloved hand an…FG 42? The Dutch nation felt his blood run cold.

It was a German assault rifle. These were German soldiers.

"NO! DON'T—" He bellowed, jolting forward. But it was too little, too late; no sooner had the Dutch troops reluctantly lowered their weapons did their "allies" open fire. His kinsmen were shot dead at point blank range. Shrieks of terror filled the streets but Holland could not hear them over his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. Rage painted his vision red, as the blood pooling from his fallen countrymen painted the cobblestone streets a ghastly crimson.

"NAZI BARSTARD!" Netherlands roared with a rage that seemed to shake him from within. Behind him, enemy hands attempted to apprehend him but were met with the full extent of Holland's trembling rage. Rounding on the Nazi offender, he struck out violently. The strength of a nation was superhuman, so one well placed backhand was enough to send the soldier tumbling feet away. But Netherlands was already onto him. He snatched up his attacker's fallen weapon and, without hesitation or mercy, fired a bullet straight into his head. Returning the favour of his "allies", he opened fire on the enemy squadron. Two shots was all it took to take down another, blood arching through the air as he hit the ground.

A savagery Netherlands had long since locked away from the modern world had broken free from the restraints of time. Slivers of his past self, of the warring, conquering monster he had once been had clawed its way out; it grinned hideously and spurred him forward to kill without mercy.

With inhuman speed and accuracy, Netherlands picked off another three. Not once ceasing fire as he stalked forward, bullet shells clinking hollowly on the ground at his feet.

More enemy soldiers were pouring into the street but Netherlands remained hyper focused on exterminating the squadron that had slaughtered his people. He was well and ready to send numbers five and six of his "allied" group to meet their maker when he took a bullet. It wasn't the first time; he had taken many a bullet before and it never got any less painful. He staggered back as the bullet burned and seared beneath the skin of his left shoulder. Oh, how he hated bullets. Willem preferred the honour once present in hand to hand combat. Any idiot could fire a pistol. Good thing too, he was right handed after all. With deadly accuracy, he shot at his most recent target and watched him go down.

Another shot was fired at the Dutch nation, one that hit the mark on his abdomen. Still, he was a nation and humans could never harm him the same way another nation could. What would have been a fatal shot to a human was an annoyance to him. Netherlands grit his teeth, tasting blood but advanced, picking off yet another of the "French" troopers in one clean shot. He had fired off shot after deadly shot and now, only one remained—the leader— who wasted no time in opening fire on Willem. Three more bullets entered his frame. He stumbled back from the force of each blow but like every undead nightmare imagination could lend its hand to, Netherlands trudged closer and closer to the last shooter who balked in terror at the hellish nation who continued to stagger forward with death in his eyes. Willem knew the gunmen had a few more bullets left but it would take more than that to stop him. The fool fired relentlessly, panic growing in his eyes as he calm to the disturbing realization that the nation remained unfazed.

The monster inside Netherlands grinned in sickly delight. To think, this mortal thought he could kill him with such a trivial thing as a clip of bullets—he who had survived hand to hand combat a hundred times over, he who was ancient in his own right. Dark amusement not withstanding, it only served to piss off the Dutch nation more.

Unfortunately, Holland's clip was empty and with his countrymen lying dead mere feet away, Holland decided this one would be personal. Spitting blood, Netherlands tossed his gun aside and stalked right up to the horrified soldier. With the speed of a cobra's strike, disarmed the man, snatching the gun out of the soldier's hand, aimed right between his eyes and without giving the soldier a chance to say his prayers, fired point blank.

Blood splattered across Netherlands face.

The Dutch nation felt another shell hit the city, wincing at the growing pains that tore through his body. His blood stained scarf billowed behind him as he stared down at the scene of carnage before him when a rifle's distant gunshot echoed through the streets. Netherlands' eyes widened as his gaze trailed down to the blood pooling from his belly. The shot from behind him ran him straight through. Netherlands choked on his own blood as his knees buckled and hit the ground. Blood sprayed from his lips as he coughed, gasping at the agonizing pain tearing through him. That shot was different—it actually wounded him which could only mean one thing. Netherlands strained his neck, and looked back to meet the gaze of his gunman.

Germany stared back at him, his piercing blue eyes boring holes into Holland.

"That's quite enough, I think," said he, thick accent clinging tightly to his words. Netherlands glared up at the Germanic nation whose government was the widespread terror of the world. Germany returned his sneer generously. Netherlands noticed the nation's rifle was pointed at the ground so he gathered that Germany wanted him alive or at the very least wasn't going to shoot him again any time soon. However, a very slight derision laced his icy tone, "It is time to be civil, wouldn't you say?"

Netherlands spat at the German's shiny black boots which he had undoubtedly polished meticulously.

"Nazi swine," he hissed venomously.

A flicker passed through Germany's cold eyes. His frown deepened and those unforgiving winter blue eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

Netherlands was unsurprised to find himself surrounded by Germany's men. One of which approached Germany and, clicking his heels together to sieg heil in the Nazi salute, addressed the nation. "Herr Bielschidmt, all is secured as ordered," the man Holland assumed was a captain reported dutifully. Germany merely nodded at his subordinate who turned on his heel and stalked off in the disciplined manner that was strictly the Nazi way. Netherlands eyed the scarlet swastika armband on the German nation's black trench coat sleeve in disgust before meeting his eyes again. This was not something that Germany had missed nor remarked upon.

"Well now," murmured Ludwig, tilting his head back ever so slightly, "Let us get down to business, ja?" Germany's stony tone indicated that there would be very little of the aforementioned "civility" in supply.

Despite how it hurt him, Netherlands let out a bitter chuckle. "I am loath to imagine what sort of business you might have on my land, terrorizing my city, Nazi." Holland said indignantly, making no efforts to mask the bite in his words. Germany didn't react because, like Netherlands, he was a man of carefully monitored emotion. If there was anyone who rivalled Netherlands' pokerface, it was Germany. With an apathetic frown still in place, Germany nodded at two soldiers who roughly and without words plucked Netherlands off the ground without any care for the Dutchman's wounds. God knows, had he been human he would have been dead several times over. Although in no foreseeable danger of fatality from Germany's affliction, he was greatly weakened.

Holland could feel his strength steadily draining from his body, just as his brutal wounds seeped with blood. He gritted his teeth to suppress the wince that threatened to tug at his features. Though the pain was outstanding, Netherlands sought to maintain dignity within the ruins of defeat. He was then unceremoniously escorted (rather, dragged) to the square outside of town hall where many of the citizens of Rotterdam remain trapped with the rest of the paratroopers who were armed at the ready. The heated flames of anger ignited in his chest once more; for them to hold arms against a civilian population…how despicable. This was not war; this was complete domination without honour. Strengthening his resolve, he stood a little taller, walked with more purpose despite the pain it caused him. His people would not watch him crumble. No, his strength was their strength and he would not let these Nazi vermin disgrace him in front of them.

Outside of the town hall, Holland spotted the city's mayor being shoved along into the square into the square looking understandably anxious. Mayor Müller, while escorted down the hall steps to and into the cobblestone square to stand beside Netherlands made eye contact with the nation sending looks of underlying fear. The mayor and Netherlands had been pulled past the previously called upon Colonel who was frowning in contempt (and was pulled outside of the city center and into the square along with the other evacuees of the city hall). Another Nazi waffen SS officer stood before them both, Germany taking his place dutifully by his side like the ever faithful lapdog.

"Goede kleine marionet." The Dutch nation mumbled backhandedly beneath his breath just loud enough for the Germanic nation to hear as he had passed. Though what had been said was in Dutch, Germany had very well comprehended the insult given, of this Netherlands had no doubt; Germany's bright blue eyes had settled on him with an icy glare.

Dutch was quite similar to German—they came from the same Germanic bloodline, after all.

The Gestapo, one by the name of Schultz, with a high forehead beneath his hat beside Germany began, "Now that everyone is present, perhaps we can begin. For convenience sake, I will speak in English. You do understand, don't you?" He waggled his gloved finger between the two of them. Netherlands only narrowed his eyes.

"What is it you want? You have no business being here." The mayor spoke in Holland's stead with ire.

The Nazi officer was not fazed by this, "We have business everywhere we wish to have business, mein freund," the Gestapo said a little too cavalierly as he lit a cigarette, his arrogance all but thickening the air itself. Taking a drag before continuing, "And we have some rather pressing business to discuss with you." He pointed at Netherlands with the cigarette tucked between his fingers. A beat had not yet passed before Netherlands gave his reply. "If only nations could be seized by premature Nazi arrogance," he deadpanned, "the Fuhrer would have no need for cowardly open warfare on innocent civilians."

There was a flash in Germany's eyes that might have been akin to guilt, there and gone in an instant; replaced once more by stony indifference. Meanwhile, his superior did not seem to share his seemingly unaffected sentiment and looked on Netherlands, livid. His remark had done exactly what it had set out to do and earned him a punch in the gut (one ordered by the Gestapo with a brief nod at one of his men) for good measure.

"Perhaps it would serve you well to remember that the safety of your people relies solely on your cooperation, Holländer." It was Germany now who hissed under his breath to Willem who was doubled over in pain, "If I were you, I would choose my words very carefully from now on." The underlying threat was clear but beneath the gruffness of Germany's steely tone of voice, the Netherlands somehow felt he was simply coaxing him to stop the wisecracks for the benefits of himself and his people. Netherlands, his head hanging low, glared up at the Nazi nation with indignation and defiance but refrained from making any more smart remarks.

"Now, on to negotiate the terms of Rotterdam's surrender…" Schultz said calmly but with a steely expectancy in his tone. Netherlands bristled while the mayor stiffened.

"We will do no such thing!" Mayor Müller exclaimed aghast.

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice." Germany chimed in, his riffle pointed safely to the ground but still an invaluable means of menace and threat. "Your forces are outmatched and we will have the entire city under our control in hours." He said bluntly, straight to the point as per usual. "The only choice you have is whether you would like to go willingly or not and I can assure you, it is in your best interest to relieve us of any extra hassle." He rumbled darkly, his tone dropping to a sinister murmur as he stared down the shorter man with a clear warning meant to intimidate.

The threat was clear—go without a fight and be conquered or invoke the brutal wrath of Germany by refusing and only piss them off further. Get slammed into the ground or get slammed into the ground harder. Obviously, the latter option was unthinkable as it was clear the Nazi party would win. Rotterdam's options were to bare a wound or one with salt rubbed in it. There were more important things at stake than pride of even freedom right now and everyone knew it.

The mayor frowned grimly, consulting the Netherlands with a grave stare at the Germanic "out of frying pan and into the fire" approach. It was obvious to Holland that the man was intimidated and slowly caving under the pressure. Netherlands, however, did not tear his eyes off the Germans in front of him for a second; his jaw ticked as he finally slid his gaze to the shorter man beside him in a side glance. Contrary to belief, nations did not have much say in what when on in their lands. Only certain times of great desperation did the country's wishes tend to pull through. It was difficult to explain to someone who wasn't a nation themselves that they both had a mind of their government, a mind of their people and a mind of their own. The people's wishes, dreams and life force spurred him on in what he felt and his governments controlled just how much he could actually do.

Müller wasn't so much asking his permission as he was hesitant to make his decision which he was sure the nation would resent. It was doubtless that Müller did not want to surrender any more than Holland did but it had to be done. Nevertheless, Netherlands inclined his chin ever so slightly as if he bid the mayor to come out and say it and that it indeed was all they could do; his final decision was needed now. The mayor saw this and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Sensing the crack in the mayor's demeanor, the SS officer spoke up once more in his usual slimy tone, "You and your people…or your nation," he paused to send a meaningful glare at Netherlands who sneered back, "will not face our wrath if you surrender now."

Sweat beading on his forehead, the mayor of Rotterdam wrung his hands nervously before casting one glance out into the square where countless German soldiers and his people held at gunpoint in the streets. A beat had passed before he sent one last pitiful glance at the wounded nation by his side and condoned his agreement. "I, on behalf of the city of Rotterdam, do so accept these terms." With the shake of the Gestapo's hand, and the mention of terms of surrender to be read and broadcasted over Rotterdam, the deed had been done and Rotterdam's surrender was final. The two were once again unceremoniously dragged down the city center steps and out into the square. Germany having already marched himself down the steps and further into the square where his waiting troops stood and briefly spoke to a few soldiers, undoubtedly making sure everything was in order.

The mayor had been shoved out with a gun at his back and the same went double for Netherlands who followed after in contempt. The Gestapo, flicking his cigarette to the ground as he ambled down the steps and into the square, passing the Germanic nation and paused in his stride to stand in front of Germany before ordering the stoic country, "Bomb it." Germany himself was taken aback by Schultz's orders but snapped out of his surprised dazed quickly, nodding his head to his superior although the Gestapo had stridden away. Netherlands felt the ground drop from under his feet, acid in his veins. His heart thundered with an unstoppable rage and desperation, his vision turned red, his entire being pulsing with fury and he felt all the anger inside of him swell and sing in a dissonant chorus of hatred. He himself could not hear his wordless fierce and earth trembling roar over the thundering heart beats in his head as he surged forward intent on breaking free of those who restrained him to tear every Nazi scum's throat out when Germany, the stony nation reared back and with one devastating blow from the butt of his rifle, plunged Netherlands into blackness.

"Bloody hell!" hissed Britain, slamming a fist tightly curled around a telegram onto the polished wooden table in his outrage, his hand narrowly missing the tea cup that rattled at the sudden brutish impact.

The United Kingdom's outburst had successfully garnered the Allies' attention as they stared in mild confusion at the unexpected display of his admittedly horrid temper. Even so, such an outlandish explosion from Arthur was a spectacle that was by no means indicative of good news.

"Mon Dieu, what now Arthur—more hate-mail for your scones?" came France's elegantly snooty quip which was more exasperated than it was downright annoyed and was followed by an obnoxiously loud laugh from America who sat beside said Frenchman.

For once, Arthur was above getting even with France although there was a flash of irritation in his narrowed jade eyes and an undeniable urge to do so if the furrowing of his overly thick brows was any indication. However, his failure to call France a "frog" or snap at America to "shut his Yankee mouth" was telling and did not go unnoticed by the rest of the Allies. This was a rather awful warning of just how bad the news was and it the feeling of foreboding was felt acutely around the room.

Without as much as a word, Britain tossed piece of parchment (rather crumpled from the crushing grip of his pale fist) onto the conference table. All allies seemed to lean in around the telegram which America had picked up and smoothed out in his gloved hands; reading a line aloud, "Germans have invaded STOP. Dutch city of Rotterdam in ruins STOP," he paused, his brow furrowing in pity, "Oh man—sucks to be Denmark."

France snatched the paper out from under the American's nose impatiently. "Dutch, not Danish! Netherlands has been invaded, you fool!" America seemed to blink when the drawn out "oh" left his lips was followed by another boisterous laugh of his. He had the decency to look sheepish as he chuckled nervously and rubbed the back of his neck.

Then, China's proud and annoyed voice chimed in, "America is barely literate; who even let him read in the first place?" he nagged, getting his two cents in as he always did. However, the nation to the right of Yao, Russia, smiled his ominous little smile and let out a tight-lipped giggle as if he were merely enjoying himself by simply being in the company of the group. It was an unnerving sight so to say the least.

"Well, my copyrighting friend, you can blame his education on Arthur. I would not allow such idiocy to have reigned through one of my beloved colonies." France replied conversationally to China, as if the eldest nation had been asking him personally. He had not. Despite this glaring fact, France continued chattily, "Nor would I have fed him the tasteless British food like he did which contributed a long history of America's bad eating habits or diabetes in his nation or—…"

"Oh shut it, frog!" Britain finally snapped, tearing the telegram away from said "frog" and slapped it across his face with a sharp whapping sound. France glared, aghast at the Brit's actions and was ready to fire off a few surly retorts but Britain cut him short. "Focus, you wankers!" he growled in annoyance, casting a glare around the table.

"This is no laughing matter!" Slapping the paper onto the table once more he grounded out, "Netherlands was an invaluable asset to our war effort! He provides us with momentous shipments of needed supplies through his ideal estuaries and ports." The British nation braced both hands on the desk and tapped his finger on the paper to further emphasize his point while he spoke. "If Netherlands and his ports are compromised we face a serious blockade in the German defense and a great shortage in supplies, therefore a great weakening in the offense of the Allied forces! Not only this, but the Nazis will have conquered perhaps one of the key trade roots of the world!" He slapped his palm on the blasted telegram with vigor.

A grave silence settled over the room as each nation digested the gravity of the situations and just exactly what the repercussions of Germany's occupation of Netherlands meant for the rest of the world's hopes of conquering the nightmarish monster that was Hitler's Third Reich.

"Uh, right…" the silence was broken however by an unsure America who idly scratched at his head in thought. "Um…but Britain, dude—what's an estuary?"

The atmosphere got a lot more pitiful only this time for America's often limited mental facilities. Britain looked like he was moments away from thrashing him (probably because he knew the other nations would somehow blame Britain as a bad educator for his former colony's lack of intelligence) as he let out a string of colourful British insults aimed at the nation that not even the English speaking America could comprehend while France sighed in his spot between the two English speakers, looking more and more like the exhausted "big brother" of the group as the meeting dragged on. China, arms crossed, stared at the western nations; his barely contained frustration escaping in muttered curses of his displeasure at the "immaturity of western nations, void of adequate teaching facilities" and that to reeducate America all it would take was "swift beatings". Meanwhile Russia's childlike smile grew all the more terrifying and otherworldly as each moment passed between the group and their fruitless arguing. One could practically feel an eerie aura swell around the violet eyed nation.

"Britain, leave him be. You know he won't learn anything." France muttered, pushing back his long golden locks out of his handsome face; for once playing big brother and mediator.

"Stay out of this, wine sniffer; he's not your responsibility!" snapped Britain.

France's eyes then narrowed dangerously. "He's not your responsibility either, Britain, or did you forget a little something called the American Revolution?"

That did it. Whatever good favour Britain and France had been holding throughout the meeting shattered and Britain, quick as a cobra's strike, grabbed a handful of France's expensive shirt collar and throttled him while America sighed, quite used to his former so called "guardians" brawling; reclining back in his chair, once again totally at ease since he was no longer the exclusive target for Britain's rampage. The sight was quite honestly an eyesore and didn't exactly inspire hope for the world's defense in the war against Hitler's armies when the very allies who banded together to stop the Nazi party from spreading were at war with each other.

"Isn't there anything we can do to help?" a soft and often unheard voice spoke up from the very end of the table before the sudden altercation could excel any further.

All at once the room seemed to halt in a listening silence.

"Who said that?" Britain demanded, ears perking up as he paused in his thrashing of the Franco nation to look around the room. "I thought I heard someone." He muttered, his thick brows furrowing pensively.

America, leaning back in his chair with his legs kicked up on the table, was well-adjusted to the scenario at hand and simply rolled his eyes, "Dude, you need to talk to someone about these hallucinations," muttered Alfred as he sipped on a bottle of coke he had cracked open around the time Britain began throttling France.

And France, who was still held firmly in Britain's grasp, pushed off the thick-browed nation with a hefty shove; smoothing out his now wrinkled shirt with distaste, "No, I heard it too. For once her Majesty is right." Casting a glance back to Russia, he raised an accusing brow at said nation, "It isn't another one of those vengeful spirits hovering around you again is it, Russia?" He asked with an air of annoyance laced suspicion.

Ivan blinked his eyes in a way that was all too innocent of the unpredictably sinister nation but seemed genuinely perplexed. "No. I do not think so. I have taken care of General Winter's restless spirit long ago." He answered easily, but his casual speech had the opposite effect of reassuring the room of nations; leaving them to wonder what sort atrocities took place for Ivan to put such a troublesome and, bluntly put, outrageously creepy problem to rest. It wasn't hard to be unnerved by one's imagination and Russia's sickeningly cheerful smile.

Russia…so creepy, the whole room seemed to think at once as they eyed the Russian nation warily.

"…It was me," came the voice, thoroughly startling the room once more before they all seemed to start again at finally taking notice to her petite form sitting at the very end of the table. The phantom speaker, with Russia and America on either side sat patiently, waiting to be acknowledged.

"Isn't there anything we can do?" said that soft voice once again, this time a little more insistently and much firmer than before.

Britain seemed to recover first and his expression of surprise faded into that of guarded annoyance. "Not to be rude, but who in bloody hell are you and who let you into our meeting?"

Canada tried hard to hide her disappointed and the frown that threatened to tug at her lips. "I'm Canada," said she.

"Canada? I don't know a…" he had trailed off before realization struck him. "Oh, Canada!" he said in surprise" It's you! I almost didn't recognize you." Britain murmured, rubbing at the back of his neck nervously at his own folly.

"Of course it is Canada, Britain!" France exclaimed upstarting, throwing his hands into the air as if it should have been obvious (and it should have; Britain had owned Canada for a couple centuries after all). "I think those monstrous brows of yours are interfering with your vision." He continued jovially under the guise that he had actually noticed Canada was present the whole time (he had not). Cooing, he stretched across the table, readying himself to hold his "Cherie" in his arms when, with a swift kick to France's unbalanced chair leg, Britain sent the Franco nation falling in a haphazard heap onto the floor with gusto; seemingly without missing a beat though, Britain politely inquired, "Beg your pardon, Canada but could you repeat that?"

The youngest nation at the table stifled a sigh, ignoring France's grumbling curses as he lifted himself up off the floor with no help from America who watched idly as he sucked back on a good old bottle of cola. She did not favour seeing meetings progress so fruitlessly this way when, with the time spent bickering, the allies could be planning on just exactly what they would do to save lives and relieve the world's sufferings. Still, she remained as patient as ever and carefully readjusted her glasses as she spoke, "Netherlands," she re-informed, "What can we do to help him?"

Britain hesitated briefly, giving her a look that spoke volumes on his discomfort of her attending their meetings this way. He had never truly agreed with Canada herself joining him in World War I but during the Great War, Canada's political ties to Britain were even stronger then than now and had served to bond her fate in the war to his. Canada, ever the loyalist nation to Britain and his monarchs, followed wherever he led. If he went to war, she went to war. It was as simple as that. If Great Britain bore arms, so did she and if he should charge into battle, crying out, "The game's afoot:Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!" she would be there, crying out along with him.

Yes, Britain never cared much for her personally following him on the European front but he, however, wanted and needed her man power. She was a female nation and a young one at that. She had not yet celebrated her 50th anniversary as an independent nation before she was called to the frontlines of the Great War. Britain felt it would be bothersome having to babysit and train such an amateur. It was her first real war after all and a nasty one at that. Whenever Britain didn't notice her, which was more often than not, she sat through the meetings without being singled out as "too young" to attend meetings. Britain eventually stopped complaining about her presence on the battle front once he quickly came to the shinning realization that Canada, despite her docile and mild mannered appearance, was an extremely desirable asset and underdog in the Allied war effort. Her men and herself included were resilient, resourceful and loyal to a fault which put them at Britain's happy disposal. She might have been proud of this at the time but she couldn't remember her brief joy at being useful to Britain's cause lasting very long for he thrusted her and her men onto the battle as a chess player might shuttle off a pawn across the board.

She decidedly repressed her memories of those days not so many years ago. She was practically still a child then and now, she was still just barely a young woman but duty called. She was more than willing to be Britain's gambit in this game of war before but was much less enthusiastic about it now. But what was she to do? The world was at war—what her sacrifices earned her where more important than what they cost her. She had hardened considerably as a nation since the Great War and the Great Depression that followed and was somber but determined in returning to her post.

Due to the stress of war, Canada had become bolder in speaking up at meetings. Her strength increased in times of crisis and she had no time to be comfortably silent. After Arthur's questionable pause, she repeated her question, "We are going to help them aren't we?" The Anglo nation frowned, clearly a mulling over something with careful consideration. Sighing, he finally sat in his chair. "I'm not so sure."

Canada's lips tugged down into a frown. "But since he has been captured it's likely that the German's have already overtaken their ports and no doubt sabotaged or stolen our shipments. This is vital, is it not? Besides all of that, the Netherlands has been nothing but a bother to the Third Reich's progression. I'm afraid to think of what they might do to retaliate—like mistreating him and his people more strongly than most…" she trailed off, loathe to imagine that she might be (and was) right.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, thinking. After another moment of thought, he shook his head, "No good, I'm afraid." said he, "We have more pressing issues to worry about than a few supplies amiss." He muttered, passing a hand through his blonde bedhead. He looked beyond tired and frustrated.

Meanwhile, the younger nation's brow furrowed at the contradiction of his words, "but you yourself stressed how important this is…" She paused, looking around at her fellow nations sitting around the table, silently entreating them with her eyes. "Besides, he's been nothing but good to us in his aid. We can manage it, right?" She said hopefully.

He nodded in exasperation, "Yes, yes. I'm aware. But there's nothing we can do about it at present. Our plate is already full." He murmured and waved his hand dismissively, idling over a few maps and papers of German munitions reports smuggled in from a spy of his.

France, leaning in, placed his hand over hers and patted it comfortingly, "Well, look at it this way, ma cherie," he said, coaxing her simply, "he knew the risk of aiding the allies" he said patiently then added lowly with distaste, "Although, knowing the stingy bastard, it was less out of the goodness of his heart and more so for the goodness in our wallets and loyal customer service from us."

But does that make a difference? thought she to herself, he is still in need of our help.

"Yeah," Canada's brother Alfred chirped, pausing to let out a loud belch (a direct side effect from the carbonated drink he had drained). The sound unsurprisingly making Yao sigh in disgust and surprisingly was enough to cause Ivan's firmly plastered smile to falter in distaste. "Chill, Maddy—dude's a beast, I'm sure he can handle a couple o' goose-stepping krauts by himself. We'll get to him later." Suddenly swung his legs down from the table and rocking back onto his chair legs, clutched at his stomach. "Which reminds me, Britain—is this meeting done? I'm starving, man."

Canada was a little affronted by the nonchalance around the room. She herself had not yet the pleasure (or displeasure judging by the way that the allies spoke of him just now) of ever meeting Netherlands personally before but she was sure he deserved to be saved just as much as anyone else in the room did. She knew they meant well and that the Allies indeed did have their metaphorical plates full (what with word of Belgium and Luxembourg facing Nazi invasion as well) but freeing the Netherlands—it could be done, right? The longer they waited to strike back at the German frontier there, the harder it would be to break through their defenses they would undoubtedly build with the rock solid foundations of time. Her caring nature didn't take well to just how easily the Dutch nation's fate was brushed aside—it made her feel a swell of frustration and pity for the situation at hand but she would say no more on forcing the topic when everyone else was in agreement that there were more pressing matters on their agendas to tend to.

Canada reasoned with herself that these were some of the greatest nations of old she had on her side and that they would handle things accordingly. She was simply a novice after all, right? It served to reason that these some ancient countries should know their way around battlefields and strategies better than her. Perhaps she was too hasty in wanting to jump in to help so fast? No matter, for she had faith in these nations that she looked up to. She trusted them to do the right thing and without a doubt, they would find a way to aid the Dutch nation in months and if they were really lucky, weeks!

But that was all bullshit and she knew it.

Although she had some faith that these nations could accomplish great things, she remembered the first war all too clearly and the careless and foolhardy mistakes they had made before. She herself could hardly move without Britain's approval, so she practically had her hands tied. Even if the Great War had finally distinguished herself as a nation and not a simple colony of Britain's, she was considered more of a tool rather than an ally. Canada had no plans of allowing this to remain any longer if too many lives were lost at the mistakes of Britain's insistence on holding back but for now there was nothing to do but follow orders. Hence, she decided she would bide her time but could only pray that Netherlands could hold on long enough for their aid to reach him because she had a truly bad feeling about this whole conundrum and when Canada had a gut feeling, she was hardly ever wrong.

After all, it wouldn't be long before they could help the Dutch nation out of his rut; not long at all.

But little did the hopeful nation know that she was wrong…very, very wrong.

September, 1944
Allied Report via Arthur Kirkland
900 hrs

Netherlands soon to enter fourth year under Nazi Germany's occupation. Allied armies have begun marching on South German occupied Netherlands via France and Belgium. First airborne strike attempt at breaching German defenses have failed. Until next Allied attempt at liberation in the foreseeable future, Netherlands remains in the hands of Germany.

Author's Note:

Well, I hope that was enjoyable for everyone!

Many thanks to Maplevogel (of tumblr) for allowing me to use their lovely art as the cover photo for this story. Check them out!

TRANSLATIONS:

*"Moeder" = "mother"

*"Goede kleine marionet" = "Good little puppet"

*"Mein freund" = "my friend"

Until next time!