disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia
Iceland sat in the meeting room; he kept quiet, just watching as no one made anymore progress then before. As much as Iceland hated to admit it the killer had them all stumped, and it was frustrating, nations were dying and no one could stop it. Iceland was doodling on his 'notes' really he just had about four five pages of doodles, he knew he should pay attention but he just couldn't. It was ridiculous no matter what he did he couldn't concentrate, so he had just given up and doodled.
His usual burgundy suit, stood out because he was surrounded by the white suits his fellow Nordics wore. He tapped his white clad feet on the purple carpet; he surveyed the room, not the people but the room itself. It had a darker cream color, with the purple carpet as already mentioned it was embroidered with flowing gold designs around the edges, the trim of the room was white, and the large table that stretched down it was mahogany and a nice rich color. The windows had white crosses through them splitting one window into four pieces. It let in a nice amount of sunshine, bright and warm, he rather liked this room. It was so soothing, so calm, so-
And suddenly his shoulder erupted into pain, like his volcano Eyjafjallajökull, he screamed, his voice high pitched and heavy with pain. Soon everyone's eyes were upon him, as he slumped forward still screaming, and soon everyone could see the knife lodged in Iceland's shoulder. Norway was upon him; he sent his brother to sleep with a short spell whispered soothingly into his ear, the younger siblings eyes closed and he fell into a deep slumber, and Norway pulled out the knife, quickly murmuring a healing spell in Old Norse tongue.
The wound sealed slowly, blood dripping from it even as it healed, until finally the wound was sealed but it left a terrible scar. It looked red and angry and would most definitely smart for a few days, maybe even weeks.
The other countries eyes darted around, the killer was nearby, and they had struck Iceland. They were bound to be upset about being foiled in his killing, except that couldn't have been further from the truth. Not-Italy was extremely happy with this result, now they wouldn't feel safe wherever they were, whatever the weather happened to be he would always be around to ruffle their feathers. But he was having more fun plucking them, slowly oh so slowly, pulling out one feather at a time until soon he would have a cold and flightless bird. His for the taking, his to devour and destroy, but until then he would continue to pluck feathers, enjoying each and every squawk of pain, and watching the pitiful feathers drift towards the ground.
He had only stayed to see Norway rush to his younger brother, but that was all he needed to observe. He knew Norway had saved his brother's life by now, with magic, he couldn't pin Norway down, and he was becoming an issue. Not-Italy wouldn't lie, well at least not to himself, he had attempted on taking Norway's oh so precious life a few times but he was unable to get close to him. Norway was either surrounded by too many people or he had a magic barrier up, and man was that thing exasperating not only did it distribute a small shock but it kept him from getting within five feet of the Nordic nation.
Not-Italy shrugged to himself as he walked down the hallways of the countries hotel, he didn't worry about being spotted, he had stolen a master card to all the rooms. He could always hide if he heard a nation coming. Killing was not part of the plan; he needed to wait until the meeting was over before he could launch it. It would be difficult he was sure. The countries carried weaponry with them everywhere now, battles axes, swords, guns, knives anything really. Not that the former Italian nation minded much, he always won, he smiled and his glowing red eyes twinkled with mischief as he slipped into a room to hide.
In the meeting room everyone was in agreement that they were not going to get any progress whatsoever so everyone fled to their rooms, quickly and in larges groups, but they knew groups didn't scare the killer so much anymore. Scotland and Ireland walked down the hallway together, both holding a large battle axe, they wandered down the red carpet, axes glinting as they walked past doors and lights, towards a sort of hang out room. Luckily stocked with copious amounts of alcohol, they opened the door, green eyes glinting with determination and sadness. Their bright red hair lit up like fire in the brighter room, they missed the closet door shutting quietly.
At first they were silent, but as they drank more and more, they loosened up. Laughing, talking in their thick accents, slapping each other on the back, Not-Italy couldn't understand what they were saying, their accents had only gotten thicker with the alcohol. They already had notoriously thick accents, but now they were practically impenetrable. He couldn't make out a word, but he wasn't particularly paying attention either, he was just waiting for the right moment.
Scotland had said something that caused both of them to sink deep into past memories, he had caught the word England, ah yes they were thinking of their brother past. Most likely wishing that they had been better to him, not that it matters now, he's gone forever, and soon they'll be seeing him.
Not-Italy smiled as he slowly pushed open the door of the closet, the two countries both faced away from him, but he did not want to attract the attention of two nations such as them. He came up behind them, knives ready, the two brothers started laughing once again; his footsteps were non-existent against the red carpet.
The two red haired lions as they were sometimes called, downed more beer and whiskey, he slowly slid across the floor towards the pair of wooden chairs that held two large and very sharp battle axes. The green handled one leaned against the leg of Scotland. It had a lion engraving and it was very large, it held red embroidery across the green handle. The other was Irelands it had a red handle with green embroidery; it had a fairy engraved on it. He stood directly behind the pair of mourning men; He raised his arm to strike, the knives glittering.
Alfred sat in his room with Sealand, he and the boy had decided to get closer now that England was gone, because Sealand needed family, England hadn't always been the best but he had been there and it was lonely in the ocean all by yourself. Alfred needed Sealand too, he wanted family too, and Matthew didn't count because they had gotten to the point when they were so close they weren't sure if they were family or not. Besides after such stunning losses for them they really needed someone who understood. Their mutual loss helped them become close, and then they realized how similar they were.
Both ambitious, both fun loving, both were raised by a grumpy brit. Surprising that they didn't become friends before, but now they were friends, brothers even. Currently they were playing apples to apples and making a big mess of it. Neither really understood how to play and it ended in 52 pick up. Sealand snorted as he rolled around on the floor, gasping for breath, Alfred smiled and continued to make up words for the doctor on the screen.
Of course the cards still rested on the floor, doomed to stay there until a tidier nations came to pick them up. Alfred had muted the TV and made up words as he went along, and proceeded to make the Dr-sir-boss-man-guy fit all the gay stereotypes, you know with all he said you'd expect the doctor to friggin barf rainbows and do ballet everywhere he went.
Both were unaware to the danger lurking just a few floors down, but it was no matter. They needed time, and they weren't wanted dead just yet, but how were they to know? With nations dying left and right, everyone started making the best of what they had left, grasping for the diamonds that they hid from themselves. Too scared to go for them, but now they needed too or they were gone forever, deep within the bowls of the earth.
While some nations grasped at diamonds, two were oblivious to the menace just behind them, they drank but of some miracle. Ireland saw the glint of the blades, he wasted no time and acted, he kicked Scotland's chair which sent the both of them tumbling. He fell back against the red carpet, the breath knocked out of him from the fall, the alcohol numbing the pain but also his movement. He rolled as three knives embedded themselves in the floor, where he had been, he grabbed his axe, stood up and momentarily his breath was misplaced again.
It was Italy, but not him at the same time, he knew right away he was possessed or well whatever part of him that was still sober knew. But he was far to smashed to really care; he supposed that's what happened when you drank your problems away. Some creepy inky black monster appears to kill you; he supposed he shouldn't drown his problems in alcohol anymore. If he survived, that is, he felt a knife slice through his arm, and thought that maybe just maybe would be a good moment to focus.
He dodged left, a fist holding the three knives grazed his cheek; he pushed Not-Italy away and got himself into a good stance. His axe raised in front of him, ready to strike, Not-Italy came at him again at almost blinding speeds. His glowing red eyes, his pearly white smile, his ink black skin. Ireland twisted and flipped to avoid the knives, he could hear Scotland laughing and encouraging him.
The two danced around tables and chairs, slicing at one another and avoiding blows to the best of their ability, truthfully Ireland's ability was heavily hampered by alcohol. Not-Italy leapt over a table delivering a well aimed kick to the jaw and Ireland's head snapped back. He quickly recovered, and punched Not-Italy in the side, sending the other nation flying.
"'EY, LADDIE! DIDN'T KNOW YOU HAD IT IN YE!" the enthusiastic Scot, cheered after the hit, Ireland twisted his axe and it sliced across Not-Italy's stomach as Not-Italy came at him, twisting, and jabbing with glittering claws. The slash across the stomach didn't do much it was an extremely shallow wound; Not-Italy's eyes were clouded, with anger and confusion and also slight pain.
They certainly weren't… normal? Is that how to put it? They weren't scared; they appeared to be even having fun. What the hell is this? The Italian mused confusedly to himself, he's smiling..? He twisted to avoid a jab, eyes keeping close watch of the other's movements.
And Ireland was indeed smiling, he may be bleeding quite a bit, but he was having the time of his life. There were cuts littered all over his upper body, and a few nicks on his legs. Black clawed at the very edge of his eyesight, he was losing too much blood, and he coiled his legs and sprung into the air performing a back flip.
Straight into the bloody wall, he hit it in a star fish sort of fashion, before sliding to the floor. The black clawed farther into his vision, his eye lids sagging, feet entered his now limited field of vision. He realized there was some blood in his eyes, he had gotten cut just above the eye, and before he lost conscious there was a great thump. Then Ireland was pulled into the black, where everything was silent and dark.
Meanwhile, while the Irish nation lost consciousness, Not-Italy had prepared to slay him, knives raised; they plummeted down towards the feeble victim. He was hit from the side with the force of a train; the knives he had held flew from his grasp as Not-Italy hit the ground. Scotland laid on top of him scrabbling to keep him down, but Not-Italy would have none of it.
He kicked him off and grabbed three knives per a hand, Scotland had moved quickly to tackle him, he had been on the other side of the room, leaning on his axe, laughing and cheering for Ireland. Now he was before Not-Italy, eyes blazing and angry. His axe prepared to strike, Not-Italy smiled, so be it, if that is what he wished then. Not-Italy held his knives in front of them, dozens already scattered all over the room, prepared for a quick grab.
Scotland ran at him his axe poised to strike, it fell towards him and Not-Italy blocked just in time, sparks flew when the metal of the axe came into contact with the metal of the knives. Not-Italy's arms shook from the strain of holding the axe away from his face, Scotland pushed more and more weight onto the axe. Not-Italy's entire body started to feel slightly compacted; he took a step back to try and hold up better, his arms where pushing back at the axe. In hopes to push it away, but Scotland was too strong for him to do that.
He dodged to the side doing a roll, causing Scotland to stumble; Not-Italy kicked out a leg and tripped him. Scotland fell and got a face full of carpet, he quickly stood up and turned, to see the ink black man running over the carpet knives poised to strike. He darted to the side but two knives sank into his shoulder while the remainder just cut the skin, he yelled in pain, and wrenched his shoulder away from the murderer.
This rendered him off balance, Not-Italy's eyes glittered as he saw the opportunity, he hooked his foot off balance and Scotland toppled to the ground. Not-Italy quickly sat on him, he impaled the Scots right hand to the floor, and he earned a scream for his efforts. He raised his knife to drive into the other mans chest. The door crashed open.
"We heard screa-OHMAHGAWD IT'S THE KILLER!"
Authors note: lol three guesses who that is. also I'M SORRY I PUT THIS UP ON SUNDAY INSTEAD OF SATURDAY (well twelve minutes into Sunday but whatever) I AM SORRY but homestuck. I love it too! it's hard loving two huge fandoms. and again cliff-hangers all over the place. but yea. I am to cotton-brained currently to write a good A/N so yea review and stuff-Ches