Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia but I do own the Idea and the extreme lateness! ^^;; sorry bout dat...

Oh so much to do so much to do! Not-Italy mused as the countries continued to speak in the meeting room, while he enjoyed killing personally he needed this person out of the way as soon as possible and sadly he didn't have the time to kill him himself. Not-Italy pouted as the inky black murderer rearranged things just the way they were when he walked in. Not a single thing out of place. He giggled slightly, closing the door quietly and disappearing down the hallway with a malicious grin. His red eyes filled with excitement, his only regret was that he wasn't killing the man himself... oh well.

America walked down the hallway, somewhat depressed. Iceland had been killed and well... Norway... he shook his head. He didn't want to think about it, it made him think about Mattie... He couldn't lose Mattie... he didn't know what he would do without Mattie. He sighed and ran his good hand through his hair and walked into his room, lumbering to his bed and flopping onto it with a groan as he agitated his arm. Fucking arm, fucking murders, damn it why was this happening? He whimpered and hugged his pillow holding it close with his good arm, his arm twanged in pain with the movement. His throat closed up and he couldn't breathe properly, his body trying to breathe faster than he was capable, his body thrashing as he tried to keep up with his body's demands.

He missed England... He needed him sometimes. He never realized it he had just been there as sure as a heartbeat. England had just been there, to offer scorn or help, America had never realized how much he needed that. Now... he was dead. A strangled sob wracked his body and tears slid from his eyes, he couldn't forget. He was right there! He couldn't save him... some hero he was... ENGLAND HAD BEEN RIGHT THERE. RIGHT. FUCKING. THERE. He had held him... h-he... w-watched the... life... the fire and f-fight... that England was a-about... fade from h-his eyes... he sobbed, he clung to the pillow, desperately clutching it. Wishing, begging, why couldn't this pillow be England? Why did he have to be dead? Why...?

He rolled onto his side and stared at the wall while his body shook with his sobs, everything was blurred, tears blocking his vision. Eventually he calmed down, he didn't know what the time was though, and the American sighed and rubbed his face. Wiping off the tears on his face, trying to wipe off the pain, just make it stop... Everything felt wrong without England here, like everything was off balance. That's not entirely true... everything felt wrong when France had died, every death after that just made everything feel more and more off. He didn't want to know how many more deaths it would take until they all fell and shattered. Sometimes he thought they already had, The American sighed and wiped the tears off his face with his good hand and stood up.

Well as much as he would like to sit around and cry in bed all day, he did have stuff to do... namely find the killer (he still couldn't accept that it was Italy... he just couldn't.) and well find out what the fuck was going on. He walked over to his suitcase (why was he even in a hotel anyway? This was his fucking country) and rifled through the contents, pushing through his clothes unaware of the danger lurking nearby in the dark.

Norway stared out of the window numbly; his indigo eyes entirely blank besides the pain that lingered there, his... brother... Iceland was dead. He was gone. He-he had raised him and maybe they didn't always get along the best but... he had cared for the younger quite a bit. He lifted a shaking hand and touched the cool window pane that overlooked New York; he stared over the grey buildings and the streets, staring into the heart of the city that took his brother's life. The cold window drew the warmth from his hand until the cold felt like it was burning his skin but he didn't lift his hand, drowning in the memory of that last moment. Norway normally wasn't one for temper tantrums but it had happened, the hotel room was looking worse for the wear.

Books wore thrown everywhere instead of their previous stacks, the Norwegian had torn his flag in half when he ripped it down, there was even gouges in the walls, the television was destroyed and pillows and blankets were everywhere along with shattered glass. There were small cuts on his hands, they weren't too bad but they stung slightly whenever he moved his hands. No one had come during the tumult he had been creating and even now that he was silent. He didn't want anyone to see him... not like this... he finally moved from the window, his shoes cracking the glass debris sprinkled across the floor and he fell onto a mattress he had flipped onto the floor earlier, laying facedown as fugitive tears slid from his eyes. He didn't sob like before, it was quiet mourning as his pain intensified again, and Norway didn't know how long he laid there and cried when the door opened.

The door caused the glass pieces to scrape the floor in an unearthly shriek; he paid it no mind, the magician didn't really care who it was and what their objective was. He almost hoped it was Not-Italy, to kill him so he could see his brother again... in the halls of Valhalla. The person walked across the room, carefully avoiding books and pillows, towards Norway. Norway dutifully ignored them, tears still wetted the mattress underneath him as he relived that moment over and over, Iceland's scream echoed in his head. Upon reaching the mattress they kneeled next to it and the man and reached a hand to the mourning Norwegian.

"Why is this happening...?" Germany questioned his friend and ally, Japan shook his head in despair and confusion.

"I do not know..." He admitted his brown eyes looking at the southern half of Italy, the normally fiery nation looked so frail and well... dead... The only assurance that he was alive was the heart monitors incessant beeping that milled in their heads. The Japanese nation shifted his eyes to the two remaining members of the bad touch trio, Spain stared at Romano his eyes empty and void of their usual happiness, Prussia stared at the ground still unable to believe that his beloved Ita-Chan had... tried to... kill his own brother...

"I have to go." Prussia said standing up suddenly and exiting the room, he couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand being in that room that smelled of anesthetics, death and other chemicals, he couldn't stand seeing the Nation that would usually be hurling insults at him and his brother laying on a bed looking so frail and... Lifeless... The albino wiped tears from his red eyes with his arm, Gilbird sat on his head unsure of how to comfort his master/friend as the Prussian walked down the halls, before he knew it he was standing out on the busy streets of New York, people pushing past and hurrying to various locations. Huh... it really was the city that never slept... even as the sun set people never stopped rushing to where they had to go. He set off in a random direction, fighting against the flow of people as they glanced at his odd hair and eyes; he easily shrugged their gazes off. He was used to it... he did have centuries to get used to it... and he did. It hurt sometimes... but nothing at all like this.

Countries were dying, being murdered by the atrocity masquerading with Italy's face; he... didn't know what to do... his brother... What if something happened to him? Prussia shook his head and fixed anything in front of him with a fiery glare, TO FUCKING HELL WITH THAT! He was the motherfucking awesome Prussia and he wasn't going to let some damn shadowy puppet master fuck with his life without feeling the consequences, but it was wearing Italy like some fancy shirt. The albino warrior groaned unhappily and bypassed some grumpy lady with a little girl hanging off her arm; He couldn't beat its ass when it was hiding behind his Italy's face.

"God damn it!" He yelled punching the wall next to him, ignoring the odd and somewhat horrified looks people gave him; Prussia hated how this was going! People he knew for centuries were just dying and maybe he wasn't all that close with them it was so strange that people he had known, that had been a constant thorn in his side or some of his good friends, just dying. It was a terrifying reminder that even they weren't permanent, that they were just as fragile as the people that were rushing around him in the darkening light. It was terrible and it hurt... it hurt to imagine his own brother on that bed... dying... Prussia moved away from the wall and moved through the bustling masses, his red eyes glaring into anything and everything.

Eventually he reached the hotel, slightly amazed that he didn't get mugged but Prussia supposed that it was his looks; The Albinos red eyes traveled up the hotel. It's golden light framed by the dark night sky and other tall buildings towering over the building that was filled with horror and pain, He sneered at it. How dare this damn building look so beautiful when so much heartbreak and blood was clinging to the walls and drowning the floor boards, maybe the blood was cleaned up but the Prussian knew that still it lingered despite the soap, the scrubbing, and the work that it was still there and it would be until the building and the memories aflame inside of it were gone.

Prussia walked into the damned building, breezing past the smiling attendants and the deceitful decor, angrily mashing a few buttons and slipping into the elevator. Glaring at the button pad before jabbing the button for his floor, leaning against the wall of the elevator he glared at his reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator. The albino glared into red eyes filled with anger, confusion, pain and anguish swirling in a dance of loss. His hair was dishevelled and his hands were shaking slightly, his body was strung high and he was gasping for breath. He jumped when the doors slid open with a small ring, suddenly snapping to the real world he looked out of the elevator and then back to his reflection.

"Oh..." He stated dumbly with a blink, causing more tears to shake themselves free of his eyes, "Look at me... How unawesome..." He mumbled, wiping his tears off of his face forcefully as he walked out of the elevator. Forcing himself to keep his back straight and not look weak, he marched across the carpet to his room, walking past Russia without so much as a glance before swiping his key card on the door and pushing on the golden handle to reveal the dark room. He slammed the door closed and tossed the key card onto the counter, it slid across the marble and tumbled into the sink with a slight clatter, and he walked into the darkness. Dragging his hand on the wall and flicking on light switches as he progressed slowly before reaching the bed, his flicked on the lamp too for extra measures, and dragged his suitcase from under the bed. Prussia set it onto the soft comforter, dragging his hands across the top of it almost as if in memory, before he unhooked the clasps with a crisp snap and carefully shoved it open.

AN:

I AM SO SORRY DUN KILL MEEEE! I got writers block, school, laziness. I am so uber uber uber sorry! Sometimes I just can't write stuff! So this goes without saying that my update schedule will be pretty irregular until I can settle back into life and get my laptop to work properly. Aside from that DUN KILL MEEEEE! I am so sorry about the cliffhanger, but I love them so, but I promise to try not to make the next update take as long! I tried to make this long for you guys but I wanted to put it up! I hope it was worth the wait! Will America, Norway and Prussia die? I don't know find out next time~!

Until the next Chappie Mates!

~MadOwl

(Oh and once again I have changed my name teehee)