Cat goes meow, dog goes woof, and train goes boom
The low blaring horn of a train sounded through the fog, its light seen from a mile away. The trees shook in the wind, rails slick with pelting rain. Figures crouched beside the rails, barely visible in the dark. Guns were slung across their backs, dressed in camouflage and faces streaked with paint and mud. Men scurried onto the tracks, clutching dynamite in their hands. They placed it onto the tracks, hiding it in the edges. "That's the last of it boys!" one declared with satisfaction, pushing up their helmet to wipe their face. The men took a moment to celebrate, clapping each other on the backs. One remained silent, bright sapphire eyes scanning the rails of the track. They retreated to the edge of the forest, out of range of the upcoming explosion.
"Why the long face, Francis? One would think that you'd be happy to see those damned Nazis meet a fiery death." A man commented, uneasy about his silent partner. Francis's eyes widened against his painted face, and he swore.
"Shit! The angle is wrong!" He cried, before sprinting onto the rails, ignoring the calls of the others for him to come back. He replaced the dynamite to another location, working quickly. The blare of the horn and the light of the lamp of the train illuminated him, but he did not pause, placing the explosives into a correct position. "What are you waiting for!?" he screamed at the others, bracing himself. A second before the train was supposed to hit him, he launched himself in the air, the explosion propelling him farther into the air than normal, combined with his enhanced abilities. He landed on the roof of the tipping over train, running along the tilted top before leaping off, landing in a practiced roll. All those centuries of combat training really paid off. The train collapsed off the side of the rails, burning for a minute before finally exploding, sending debris everywhere. Francis dove into a ditch, staying there until he was confident it was safe to run, then sprinting back to the rest of his group.
"Francis you fucking idiot what were you thinking! How the hell are you still alive?" A man yelled as France skidded to a stop in front of them and promptly fell forward onto his knees, breathing heavily.
"Not… a… problem… when… you… can't… die…" He panted, slipping back into Old French, a habit of his when he escaped a near death experience. Of course he couldn't die unless his country did, but it was stressful anyway. He had once annoyed the hell out of Napoleon by shrieking in Old French that Prussia might have stabbed him in the back, quite literally, at one of the battles in the Napoleonic wars, while still having a sword stuck through him and making no attempt whatsoever to remove it. The other men's brows furrowed as Francis began to laugh, standing up and dusting himself off. "I'm afraid I must go now before a certain German notices that i'm not doing my hair. Au revoir, mes amis!" He called, running off, leaving a faint scent of roses and lavender behind him.
"Who are you?" they asked, beyond surprised that he could escape alive. He turned back, grinning at his brave citizens who were willing to risk their lives for their country, not knowing that a personification of said country was beside them.
"I'm France." he said with a smile, before disappearing into the trees, in the direction of his heart.
While France was on his mission, England paced the length of the hallway of the base he was stationed at, the sharp click of his boots against tile not doing anything to soothe his nerves. "Get it the fuck together Arthur, you've been through worse." He hissed to himself, trying to calm down. He burst into a meeting room, not caring what he was interrupting. "Get me a map of France in the next five seconds." He demanded, scowling as the men in the room raised their eyebrows. "What? Was I speaking Hindi again?" He asked, genuinely confused. One of the men snickered, sauntering over to the Nation.
"No but just who the hell do you think you are to barge in here and demand stuff?" He drawled in a horrendous southern accent, arrogance lacing his words. Poisonous green eyes glared up at the taller man, making him step back.
"I advise you, you bloody yank, to get me a map within the next five seconds or getting your face severely damaged." He warned in a dangerously low tone. One of the men finally recognized the pissed off nation and got him a map, which he accepted wordlessly, unrolling it and scanning it, tracing Gold and Sword with a finger.
"Hey how the hell do you know about Operation Overlord? That's classified." The previous American soldier demanded, snatching the map away. "A lowly private like you shouldn't even be fit to get into this base."
"Give me back my map of my love or you won't live to see the next sunrise." Arthur snarled, hand creeping to the sword he always kept on his belt. "I'm going to have to have a long chat with Alfred about the arrogance of his idiotic citizens." The soldier sneered and spit at Arthur's feet, and not even a split second had a cutlass pointed at him. "Mortal just who do you think you are?"
"Sir Kirkland please calm down we know you are a bit on edge." An English officer tried to appease the furious nation, while also gesturing behind him for backup. Last time England got mad it was NOT pretty.
"Yo Iggy why the fuck do ya have a sword?" A loud voice broke in, and America sauntered into the room, dressed in his usual fighter pilot uniform, complete with a burger in his gloved hands and an idiotic grin on his face. Everyone in the room instantly snapped into a salute except England, who only shot America an exasperated glare.
"Call me that bloody nickname again and I won't hesitate to stab you. I need you and your brother to go over the plans for Overlord. I'm waiting on a call from France to confirm the isolation of the area."
"On it dude." America responded, dropping the idiot act. "I just returned from sending a little shipment of confetti to Ludwig. Make him think we are attacking in another location and letting our planes fly without detection. Francis should be fine, he's literally survived having his head cut off. Several times, if i'm not mistaken."
England sheathed his sword and glared, starting to pace the room again. "I've chopped his head off personally during our pirate and corsair years I KNOW he can. A word of advice America, never do that. I had him as a talking head for about a week that was bloody terrifying."
America laughed, taking a bite of his burger. "Dude that sounds awesome." He exclaimed around a mouthful of food, wide smile back in place. The phone rang, startling everyone in the room, England lunged for it, but the phone was snatched out of his grasp by the rude American, who smirked and answered it. Before he could get a single word in England punched him, and taking it back while the soldier was bent over, wheezing.
"Francis? Is that you?" He asked hurriedly, talking in French.
"Arthur? I'm in a secret room in the catacombs, I don't have long to talk. My love it is so nice to hear your voice."
"How did it go?"
"The train went up in flames, nothing is left. I know that Ludwig is not expecting anything, and the attack can be made in surprise. I'll be in Caen, doing everything I can to help. If I were in Normandy at that time it would be far too suspicious, but I will do my best to disable the bunkers. I must run now, see you in a few days. Please tell my precious Matthieu that I love him, for I cannot right now. Je t'aime, mon cher Arthur."
"D'accord et je t'aime aussi." The line went blank and Arthur put the phone back on the hook, facing Alfred again. "Can you go fetch your brother? He needs to hear this. I'll need a map of Francis and I, along with a pen." Alfred nodded, running out of the room.
"How the hell do you know French?" A man who Arthur did not know demanded, looking at Arthur with distrust in his eyes.
"I used to rule the bloody world of course I know French." England snapped, taking a map with a curt thank you. He rolled it out on the table in the center, sweeping all other papers to the floor. He took a knife out of his pocket and stabbed the corner into the table, ignoring how half of the people in the room jumped at the sound. His finger traced over his assigned beaches, green glowing wherever his finger landed. He marked a path to Caen, then to Paris.
"What the hell are you doing?" the same man asked, and Arthur paused to glare at him.
"Doth ev'ryone a fav'r and did shut the hell up." England snapped, unaware that he was speaking in an outdated way. "What art thee bloody idiots looking at?" A slight cough sounded from behind England, and he turned around to see Canada, looking incredibly confused.
"Excuse me Arthur… you were speaking Old English again." Arthur sighed, rubbing his temples. Why does his own language have to change so often? He had once told France to 'thee frog don't gallow me liketh yond' and America hadn't let him hear the end of it for three decades.
"Hello Matthew, come look at these plans." he beckoned over the Canadian with one long finger, America on his other side. England traced Juno, highlighting a path to Caen. "This is where Francis is. Our goal is to get there within a week, and from there we can get Francis's help to get to his heart."
"Is papa alright?" Matthew asked, looking at the map with worry in his violet eyes.
"He is doing everything he can to help us without raising any suspicions. He said to tell you that he loves you." A strangled sound escaped Matthew's throat and Alfred instantly wrapped his arms around his brother, expression solemn.
"Mattie. Francis is strong. We'll see him soon, along with the end of this war." America stated firmly, grabbing his brother by his shoulders and looking deep into his eyes. Arthur nodded in agreement, getting up and beginning to pace the room again.
"I'm just so worried about that insufferable frog." He muttered, shaking his head, jade eyes squeezed shut.
America sighed, rolling his eyes. "Jeez mom calm your tits." England whirled around, sputtering in outrage.
"Excuse me?! I'm no one's bloody mum, thank you very much!" He yelled at America, who raised his hands and backed up, smirking. "What the hell do you mean by that last bit?!"
"Jesus dude it's just an expression we use back at my place. So calm your tits Iggy."
"WHAT THE FUCKING HELL DO YOU MEAN BY THAT AMERICA YOU WANKER I'M NOT A WOMAN!" England yelled, steadily growing redder.
"I don't know you look pretty feminine…"
"YOU CAN BLOODY CHECK I'M FAIRLY CONFIDENT THAT I'M MALE!" England screeched, then paled when he realized what he said. "On second thought, don't check."
"Mattie bro a little help over here?!"
"You know he's right, only Francis can check." Canada said in a very good imitation of America's voice, snickering when England started strangling America. The duo made their way out of the room, still actively trying to kill each other. "Countries." Canada clarified at the confused looks getting sent his way. "We like to call England mom sometimes, it always cheers us up to see how mad he gets." He exited the room after finishing going over plans, making his way down to England's room. He cracked it open to see the nation intently staring at an old photograph, eyes swimming with tears, candlelight casting shadows on his features. Canada crept up behind him, for once glad about his near invisibility. It was a photograph from the early 1800's shortly after the camera was invented. Francis and Arthur stood side by side, arms around each other and genuine love in their eyes.
"I'll get back to you my love… even if it takes a century…" Matthew heard Arthur whisper, and backed away, sensing that he should not be intruding on this moment. He opened the door with a loud creak, clearing his throat to catch Arthur's attention and make it look like he had just come in. Arthur jumped and hastily stowed away the photo, turning to face Matthew.
"We leave before dawn." Arthur nodded, eyes hardening to chips of emerald ice and lips curling up into a savage snarl, a face that sent shivers of fear up the other nations spine. It was the face of a man who had destroyed entire civilizations, killed countless people, and was prepared to do it again. All for the one he loved.