HEY YOU GUYS! (Can you tell I've been listening to America's character song yet?) Just so you know I do not own Hetalia... I'm working on it however... How about I put Hidekazu Himaruya in the FunHouse hmmm? ;)

Also a big thanks to Maiya123 my lovely lovely girl who I need to give a hug too for betaing this for me and the Giving In group on facebook who have now given me the title of group Serial Killer *thumbs up* love you girls too. haha~

WARNINGS: Character deaths. Scenes viewers may find disturbing (oh always wanted to say that), oh and America swearing at thin air!

*noms on meat pie* You know this could of done with a bit more time in the oven ;) (if you don't get me... you will WAHAHAHAHAHA) want some?

Chapter 2

When America woke up his whole body ached. He felt... so sore inside. His whole core was mush. Praying that it was only because of the poison he tried to force himself to his feet but found his legs unwilling.

God damn it. He needed to get out of there quickly and find that antidote. There was no way he was going to die. Once again he got up clinging to the wall for support. Slowly he made his way to the door relying more and more on his legs until he was standing unsupported. They trembled and threatened to once again buckle under him but they stayed firm. Or at least as firm as they could after what America had been through. He threw one hand forward to push open the door to his 'bedroom' and stopped short. On his hand in big bold permanent maker was a number. 1300. Flipping his hand over he saw the words '24 hours to go' already rubbing off. He gritted his teeth in annoyance as he checked his watch and saw that it was 2:30. He had been out for an hour and a half! Shit.

Russia had disappeared. He wasn't even in the landing as America tumbled out of his room clutching his tummy. Things were getting stranger anyway. It was like a freaking fun house. Lights and smoke and, fuck, clowns. He gulped barely holding it together. Ever since he had watched 'IT' he had been freaking scared of clowns. How were you meant to tell if the smudged red round their lips was make-up or blood? And you could never tell what they were thinking or what they were hiding behind that big red nose. How the fuck could anybody NOT be scared?

He wanted nothing more then to run back into his bedroom but the door had locked behind him. There was no way out of his worse nightmare but forwards. He closed his eyes tight wanting to shut out all the images in front of him but fell over pretty quickly. Realising that he had to keep his eyes open he squinted at the floor. Just in front of his feet were swirling plates spinning dangerous fast. He tested it by placing his toe delicately on to it. His leg was almost snatched out from beneath him making him lose his balance and grab hold of a clown's nose for support. Blood dripped steadily from his toe where the platform had cut into him. This was not an ordinary fun house, although he gathered that from the start.

Figuring that he would have to move fast; unless he wanted his feet cut to ribbons, he prepared himself to look straight at the clowns and make a dash for it. He forgot completely about the state his legs were in. The jump made his leg crumple beneath him and he realised all too late that those weren't flat platforms. They were small daggers pointing to the sky in tight bundles and he was standing on them as they span, his weight pushing him down onto them. The small blades cut into his feet and hands, the spinning motion cutting lumps of flesh off each passing second.

He cried out in pain but struggled forwards. Each time his legs grew weaker and the blade dug further and further in as they became more spread out until America landed awkwardly on one and the blade went right through the foot. He was spun around with the motion of the platform which was also becoming steadily faster with each platform he landed on. He was losing all sense of direction as he tried his best to wrench his foot off of the sharp metal now glistening with his blood.

"GOD DAMMIT! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT WITH ME?" His stomach flipped as he yelled and he remembered why he needed to keep moving. He had to get that antidote.

He yanked his leg upwards and took the last jump landing heavily on his feet and out of breath. His legs after bearing with him through that whole trial gave out and he collapsed on to the cool floor trying to regain what little health he still had.

He had to keep moving.

Grunting, he dragged himself along the floor towards he only door in sight. His concentration spilt between gaining enough strength to reach the exit to this trial and willing his body to heal already. His legs were only tired now instead of the numbness he felt earlier so that had to be a good sign right?

He reached the door before he really let himself relax. He checked the watch again. 2:45. Dragging himself along had to of taken a good ten minutes yet the trial on a whole had felt more like a million hours then the 5 minutes it had actually been. His legs felt much sturdier then they had before but his feet were still nothing but slabs of cut meat. His only guess was that his healing powers were being used else where, say, repairing the growing hole in his stomach. Or had the poison already moved to another part of his body already?

He lay there for a further 5 minutes just to prepare himself for what was coming next. Hadn't Russia said something about this being a game? Well this was one SICK game. When he found out who was behind it he would SLAUGHTER them.

Finally the forced himself up gripping the golden door knob for support only for it to burn his torn skin.

What the fudge?

He tore at the skirt, dreading having to make it even shorter but at the moment not really caring who saw him, and wrapped the fabric around his hand. Lightening quickly he threw open the door and was hit by indescribable heat.

"What the fuck?" Lately that seemed to be becoming his national saying.

Spain sat slumped in the middle of the room on a tank which at first looked like tomato juice but the irony smell gave it away as blood.

"Spain, bro, are you like alright?" He went forwards slowly, the metal plates moving under his feet slightly as he limped towards the Spaniard, hand raised.

His hand almost touched the sweating skin when the body jolted. Spain's eyes snapped open.

"ROMANO!" He screamed out. The sound killed America's ears who tried his hardest to block it out. It was so broken. So painful. What had happened to the happy nation?

"Spain! Spain! For fuck's sake man pull it together!" America lost it slapping the still screaming nation. Spain stared at him wordlessly for a couple of seconds as they both panted recovering from different pains.

"A-america?"

"Dude. Tell me what's happened."

"They... they took me and Romano from our home. Told me I had to guard a door. Kill anyone who tried to pass and shut us both in here. I pleaded with them to let Roma go. But they ignored me." He clasped his hands over his face and America noticed the huge axe resting against Spain's back.

"I tried again and again but I pushed them to far. I was knocked out and when I woke up I was chained to his box, and forced to watch as some masked man cut into Romano. So many cuts. Each getting deeper. His screams getting louder. He yelled for me to save him. He screamed my name. The last thing I heard him say was ti amo, and I knew he had given up. My Roma gave up!"

Tears ran down Spain's face mixing with the sweat. Red lights swung round focusing on him and making him appear to be crying blood.

America's chest clenched. He couldn't be serious. Little Romano, head of the Mafia, modern day torturer extraordinaire and pretty much at the head of every large gang in America, couldn't be dead. He couldn't be!

"Dude. That's... heavy. But if he's gone now you have to focus on getting yourself out. South Italy would have wanted that."

"You know nothing about Romano." Spain spat glaring at America who held his ground.

"I'll have you know that he practically took over my major cities in the early 1900s. He stayed with me when he ran from you. He told me things no-one else knows because we were both too drunk to stop ourselves. He always swore but he would swear most about you and Italy because you were the ones he cared about most. He was always insecure about what people thought until he got to power and demanded people's respect like he tried to do everyday in his life. Don't tell me I know nothing about him!"

That shut up Spain who still was angry. He reached behind him gripping the axe. America noticed the sudden shift and realise what Spain had said earlier. He was here to kill the person who tried to get through the door behind him. The door the American needed to use if he was going to get out of there.

"You have to be fucking kidding me." He sighing. Spain sensing that the normally clueless nation had clued in swung the axe over his head aiming to kill America in one go.

The other nation had been waiting for this and leapt back, preforming an impressive back flip out of its path. He bit his lip painfully hard as the impact on his heavily damaged feet set his nerves on fire.

"Why are you still doing what these bastards asked if Romano is dead already?" He dodged the axe clumsily as his feet protested under him. The room filled with manic laughter from unseen speakers. It was sickeningly familiar but America was a bit too busy to stop and think of why.

"He's not dead! The voice told me so. The only way that he'll ever survive and get out is if I kill you. So. HOLD. STILL."

America ignored him, ducking and smelt something strangely like cooking bacon. Where the fuck was it coming from?

The butt of the axe caught America's shoulder sending him spinning to the floor. The floor burnt into his skin. Now he knew why there were metal plates. The whole room was a freaking cooker!

"Spain~! STOP IT! THIS IS MADNESS!"

"THIS IS SURVIVAL! EVEN IF I DIE I'M GOING TO MAKE SURE ROMANO LIVES!"

Dammit. America really needed a weapon if he was to have any hope in hell of getting out of there alive. As though reading his thoughts a hammer of similar proportions to the axe, fell down from the ceiling in front of him. Looking up he noticed a metal hinge hanging off. Whoever had planned this had thought of everything.

America scrambled forwards trying to get away from the crazed blood thirsty nation behind him to his 'salvation'. The heated floor started tearing the left over skin off his feet as it melted. Spain stalked after him not even seeming to register his own pain.

"Give it up already America mi amigo. I'm not going to let you pass." He stood on America's foot stopping him from moving forwards.

"Che. Unfortunately for you I don't listen much to my elders." America replied attempting to flash the Spaniard with his winning smile. He was so close. If he could just reach forwards without having his hand chopped off. Or worse his head.

"Brat,"

He reached up. Fingers brushed the fast heating metal hammer.

"Hey! You're the one who stole my tomatoes!"

Spain's eyes clouded over and looked upwards trying to remember. At least he didn't have that murderous look for a second. Just what America needed. He shuffled a bit feeling the heat begin to melt the dress he wore. He had to get up quickly.

"Did I really?"

Oh dear. His time was up.

"Yeah! Dude your memory is short."

His fingers grasped the hot metal.

"Oh I guess I did." That look was back again. Fuck.

The axe was swung again and would defiantly of decapitated America if he hadn't of dragged the hammer over. The metals crashed into each other.

"Why won't you just die!"

"Heh, I guess I just like fighting."

"Cucaracha,"

"I have no clue what that means but it sure don't sound g- OH MY GOD."

Spain turned to see what America was staring at and froze.

"R-rom-" the scream of pure pain erupted from the Spanish mouth. He dropped the axe instead clutching his head.

"ROMANOOOO! ROMANOOOOOOOOO!"

America scrambled out from beneath the other nation still screaming nonsensically. He quickly abandoned the hammer and picked up the axe. He backed towards the door sweat pouring off his forehead. His back protested from the severe burns across it. Spain didn't even notice he had moved at all.

"Romano."

He had stood up trying to get his loved country down. He hung from the ceiling. Burns almost making him unidentifiable, yet his one signature curl still stood on his head, untameable even in death. What little was left of him was sliced deeply.

His eyes were left now devoid of colour and staring blankly. The rotten burning smell of meat made America sure he had been dead, stuck on the ceiling above Spain for days.

Still with his eyes glued on the two nations he felt fervently for the door knob behind him, all too aware that his feet were sticking fast to the ground. Finally he felt the metal orb and twisted pushing the door outwards. Almost immediately a siren went off. A metal door started sliding slowly down over the two doors and America quickly got out. He turned back to see rising flames and Spain still sat there holding the corpse.

"Spain come on we can get out of here together! Please leave him and move!"

The Spaniard didn't move. The metal door slowly trundled down past Americas view level. He ducked down.

"Look I don't care if you just tried to kill me, move please! The doors almost shut!"

Again nothing and then, "I can't America. I promised him I would protect him with my life. I failed. Leave me here."

"NO!" the door was almost completely closed but America didn't care. He lay on his stomach calling through the small gap. "SPAIN!" The door shut with a resounding thud and all America could do was listen to the screams as the once optimistic nation was burnt alive.

Oh I'm mean aren't I... in a good way of course. So whose still up for some of that pie? ;)

TRANSLATIONS

Cucaracha- Cockroach. just feels appropriate right now~

Next time: The Mirrored Maze

Thank you very much for reading. Please Review~ I'll give you virtual cookies!