(A/N) Here is Chapter 2! I managed to finish editing this chapter quicker than expected, and have put lots of effort into trying to make it as good as the first chapter. Whether I have succeeded, or not is up to you to decide. I'm grateful for all the great reviews I've gotten soo far, and everyone who had favourited and followed. I was actually nervous to post this chapter, as I didn't want to ruin the fic, but I think I did a great job. As usual, no flames please, if you hate it, keep it to yourself. However, if you think it could be better, recommend improvements, as well as what was good, and what was bad.
DISCLAIMER - I do not own Hetalia, or its characters; it belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.
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Chapter 2: Welcome to Hell!
Eventually, Italy had calmed down, his crying being reduced to shaky breaths. He was still hugging America tightly, and was showing no sign of wanting to let go. The blonde understood that the guy was terrified by their current predicament, but he was starting to get slightly irritated just standing there doing nothing. The fact that his favourite bomber jacket was now stained with tears wasn't helping.
"You alright?" he asked, concerned as the shorter man started to shake violently.
"Y-Yeah, I think so," replied the Italian, his grip on America loosening a little bit.
"Come on, we need to find a way out of here," the blonde stated softly, pulling away from the hug; his hands now resting on the fellow nation's shoulders. Seeing the deeply worried look on Italy's face, he added, "and don't worry, I'll protect you, and take care of all the bad dudes who try to stop us!"
"OK, America," was the response he received.
Taking a deep breath, he took out the gun from his jacket and gripped it tightly, making sure not the rest his fingers on the trigger; the firearm going off by accident and possibly attracting unwanted attention wasn't what he needed, assuming they were in a guarded building.
Cautiously, he took a step forward, glancing behind him to make sure that the Italian was following. Relieved to see that he was, he turned to the direction they were heading in, which was towards the rusted, pale blue door he didn't fancy going into earlier. He still didn't want to go in there, but what choice did he have? If he wanted to find an exit, then he needed to take these sacrifices; grow a pair, be a man, be the hero he aspired to be.
The door was getting bigger the closer they got, and America could feel the unease wash over him, similar to how a bucket of ice, cold water is poured over somebody's head; not a very pleasant feeling. It worsened as they stood in front of the door. The blonde had to mentally tell himself that a hero shouldn't be scared or nervous, but brave and fearless as he grabbed the handle, pushed it down and slowly opened it.
What awaited them was a dark, narrow corridor. It had one round window on the left wall that was smashed, allowing the cold, aggressive wind from the outside to enter, as well as some droplets of rain, which was quite heavy. Unfortunately, the window was way too small for any of the two nations to climb through, shattering America's plan of getting out that way immediately. At the end of the corridor, was a door that looked the same as the door they had just entered, however, it had a long, thick line of white paint, starting from the middle, to the end.
'Guess that's where we're going.'
"Stay close," the blonde ordered in a soft, quiet whisper, as the duo stepped into the corridor.
Once they were in, the door slammed shut behind them, leaving them with no choice, but to go forward. America felt like he was starring in his own horror movie, as the wind blew through his hair, and whistled in his ears; but he couldn't give up, even if he had a terrified Italian gripping the back of his bomber jacket for dear life. That, was slowing him down.
It didn't take them long to reach the end of the corridor, or for the American to open the door at the end.
On the other side, they were greeted with nothing but darkness and a strong scent of damp, which caused Italy to promptly grip the back of America's jacket tighter, whilst quivering even more than he was on the way to the room.
"Hey, are yo-?" the blonde was interrupted by a door round the corner opening and closing, followed by footsteps. The nations immediately crouched, so they could blend into the darkness and avoid detection.
"What do you mean, 'He's dead'?" A voice asked sternly; it sounded like it had belonged to a male and was very familiar to the American; soo familiar that it made his blood run cold.
The unknown man then let out a sigh, as a flick of a light-switch was heard, followed by a chuckle. "Well, it was his own fault for trying to get his toast out with a fork," he stated, as he stopped in his tracks suddenly.
America quickly covered his mouth, so his breathing couldn't be heard; he felt like his heart was going to burst from his chest, and not in a good way like when you're in love. Italy looked as if he was going to cry, but tried to hold it back.
"So, do you have any idea what that little bitch-" the man stopped mid question, as he heard Italy sneeze. "Sorry, you'll have to hold on a second, I'm pretty sure I just heard something just now."
Footsteps were heard slowly approaching. The blonde didn't know what to do: they couldn't go back, not only was it freezing in that corridor, but it was also back to square one, and he couldn't let that happen. So, with no other options, he tightly gripped his gun, and prepared to aim if necessary.
"What the fuck?" the stanger said, evident shock and confusion in his voice, as he rounded the corner.
'What the hell?!' America thought, as he looked at this man, with equal confusion. The blonde couldn't believe what he was looking at.
This man. He sounded just like America, he looked just like America, except his appearance was slightly altered. He had the same strong muscular build, hairstyle and facial structure, but his skin was tanned, and his hair was dark red. Unlike America's light blue eyes behind a pair of glasses; his were red, and he also didn't wear glasses, however, he did have a pair of black sunglasses resting on the top of his head.
"I understand that I'm good looking, but it's rude of you to stare," he sighed in annoyance, placing a gloved hand on the bridge of his nose.
"Who are you?" America asked, trying to sound as confident as he could. "Are you like my long lost twin, or an alien?"
"Allen," the lookalike replied, taking his hand off his nose. "And no, I'm not your long lost twin, or an alien. I'm your opposite personality, you can refer to us as 2Ps, it makes things less difficult."
"Us?"
"Yeah, you didn't think it was just me, did you?" Allen asked, now slightly amused. "Why are you even-" he mumbled, and went to walk away, but was stopped by America.
"Where are we?"
"Hell, you're in Hell," he replied bitterly. "Get out before She finds out you've escaped."
And with that said, he ran off.
"What's the deal with him?" The blonde wondered.
"Who is that "She" he mentioned?" Italy asked, in a shaky voice.
"I don't know, but it doesn't sound good."
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So... I know what you're thinking, "2Ps. Great *eye roll*" Yeah, don't worry, I'm not going to make them clichéd, cold-blooded psychos like they're usually portrayed (that gets kinda old, no offence). Why put them in the story, then? You'll see. Just to clarify, I have nothing against people who do portray them as such. Improvements are appreciated, please tell me what I did right, wrong and how I can improve. If you would like, you could also favourite and follow this fic, as well as suggest ideas for future chapters. R&R and thanks for reading!
