Author's Note: Hello, everyone. I've been looking forward to posting this for quite a while; I'm hoping it'll be good.
It's a Red vs. Blue/Hetalia crossover. Let the record show I own neither of these and am making no profit on this, so please—don't sue me.
Red vs. Blue fans: Hetalia is about the Nations of the world personified. It's history on crack.
Hetalia fans: Red vs. Blue is a Halo based Machinima created by Rooster Teeth, the portion I am drawing from is of the Freelancers, a group of special ops agents who eventually fall victim to horrible fates.
Fans of both: Welcome.
I don't want to risk the author's note being longer than the actual chapter, so more information in chapter 2. Enjoy.
The man in the cell was hardly recognizable as his former self—his hair was lank and drooping into his face, his eyes were empty, and his shoulders were stooped. He appeared broken, far from the freedom fighter he had been only years before. He had almost given up on freedom—he'd been in the cell too long, hadn't seen the sun or the sky, the land that he loved. He had tried to escape earlier on. But now—
He looked up as the door to the cell was pushed open and met his visitor with a stony glare few from his old life would recognize on him. But he couldn't be the person he had been, the man who would be recognizable to the people he had known—none of them were here now, only his captor and that meant one thing, and one thing only—survive.
"Director," the man growled.
The Director stood tall and proud, smiling smugly, arms behind his back. He nodded, "America."
America grimaced, "Come to gloat, dude?"
"That depends," the Director said, "you were the one who requested that I inform you of changes in the lineup of my Freelancers. Would you count that as gloating?"
"Tell me."
"We have a new recruit."
"Who is it this time?"
"Texas," the director pretended not to notice as America pushed his glasses ever-so-gently up the bridge of his nose, "She fought like a woman possessed, but she's one of us now safe and sound. You needn't worry, America."
"Like hell," America glared at the Director through his glasses.
"Come now, if you're still holding a grudge about what happened to Florida—"
"Don't—don't talk about what happened to Florida." America's voice cracked.
"It was a valiant rescue attempt on your part, America. Such a shame Florida had to be lost." On that note the Director turned on his heel and strode out of the cell.
America glared at the cell door, hoping the Director could feel all his hatred and anger through the walls, but after the Directors footsteps had faded to nothingness he slumped. The once proud man buried his face in his hands, "Poor, poor Florida."