Chapter contains violence and drug-use.

- - -

Ah! what is not a dream by day

To him whose eyes are cast

On things around him with a ray

Turned back upon the past?

Chapter V

"Ah, Braginski sir? It seems the administrators have not agreed on anything yet… Things don't look very good right now."

Russia surveyed the young man in front of him through the visor of his uniform hat. The dark blonde couldn't be more than twenty-five years old. "I see… No word from Tarasov?" The president was supposed to have returned from his goodwill trip to America today.

"No, not yet…" The man—what was his name? Dmitri? —Shifted uncomfortably. Ivan couldn't help but smile through his laced fingers in amusement. He shrugged in a mock attempt to ease the troubled secretary.
"We won't have to worry though, da? I'm sure Sergei will speak to us soon. The people are frightened and I myself am afraid without his guidance. What do you think, Dmitri?"

The secretary straightened his slouching stance. "M-me?" He asked incredulously, "I-I'm not sure if I'm important enough for my opinion to matter with all due respect, sir."

Ivan only burst out in laughter causing the smaller man to violently jump. "S-sir? What's so funny?"

Russia wiped the meager tears from his eyes as he looked up at him again. "Who is a father who does not listen to his children? You're very modest, but that's good. If you're not going to change your mind, then you may leave. I have a lot of matters to attend to…"

Dmitri looked down at the floor. "If it's not too late, sir…"

"Yes?" Russia pressed almost kindly.

"I have family in Yakustk. The towns and cities are growing poorer and poorer in the east and I'm worried about them. I hope the government will be able to sort it out soon—if not then… I'm afraid—I'm afraid…" he trailed off, uncertain if he should finish.
If Ivan were standing next to him, he would've laid a hand on his shoulder; but he wasn't, so he had to settle with giving him a sympathetic gaze instead. Dmitri was not the only one. Russia could feel the tension of millions build up in his core—he understood them more than well. Their resources were dwindling and the people were arguing with one another over what was left.

It was painful for a parent to watch their children attack each other over a mangled scrap of bread. Brothers slit the necks of brothers and sisters stabbed the back of sisters.

When would this era of pain be over?

- - - - - - - - -

Russia was at his desk again, quietly contemplating the charts of his falling economy and the rising oil prices. It was funny how his alternate sources of fuel were taking advantage of his demands—no—needs. This couldn't go on for very long.

They needed to drill faster.

The phone anchoring a stack of papers to his desk rang and he answered it with a slow, uninterested hand. The constant downpour of bad news was making him lethargically dull.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Braginski, sir? Berliavskii is still missing from last week. We can't find him. Uh… the Council and Administration are considering he committed suicide."

"I see…"

"Uhm, and that's not it," He sounded harassed. No surprise there after seeing all the unfortunate events that had happened in a span of seven days: an influential member of the Security Council had disappeared without a trace, an uprising in Aldan left five people dead—two of which who worked for the government; the rest, civilians.
"Golovkin didn't show up today or yesterday for the mandatory meetings. The last time he was seen by the rest of the Administration was when he walked out in the middle of a gathering four days ago."

"Is that so? What steps are the Investigation squad taking?"

"They're searching every area that has a connection to him, sir- oh, excuse me for a second."

For a moment, all Russia heard was murmuring in the background.

"Golovkin's wife was found washed ashore of the Volga. The people who found her discovered a bullet hole in the back of her head. Suicide is unlikely but the specialists said they couldn't say for sure. They think it may be a cover up—an autopsy will be completed tomorrow."

Russia nodded to himself absentmindedly. This was unfortunate indeed but how many times had he lived through enough conspiracies and murders to drive a stake of apathy through him?

This was merely another tally etched into the wall.

"I see. Golovkin may be involved. Continue the investigation as planned; I'll see what I can do. Is that all?"

"Yes sir."

"Good day then."

Ivan hung up and reclined back in his chair. It wasn't difficult to say he was occupied at the very least.

His mind wandered to the other countries. He wondered how they were doing. He wondered if they were all enjoying watching him struggle—he wouldn't be surprised if they were. After all, it is to be expected of them—their behaviors were very predictable, yet they still managed to baffle him at the same time.

It was Lithuania however, who intrigued him the most. His brothers suffered several riots, leaving many dead—It was Lithuania who was kind enough to help steady themselves. That was to be expected of him as well, but he did not assume for a moment that Lithuania would take the two under his wing.

A proposition like that was very much unlike him. Yet, he still received praise and encouragement for the action.

How things had been very different for Ivan when he did the same thing.

The others were very peculiar indeed.

- - - - - - - - -

It was a quiet day.

Paranoia still caused the back of his neck to prickle, though.

The young man, Dmitri, was working in his house today. Things have been fairly uneventful which was probably the most he could hope for.

Almost a month had passed since the first member of the Council disappeared. There were no more leads after the last murder so the investigators were left to fumble around in the dark. Russia himself didn't know where his staff had gone. The loose explanation he adopted involved the two allegedly resigning out of cowardice. Suicide, like the remaining staff had said, was a likely explanation as well.

It wasn't that Ivan really blamed any of them. He learned that ordinary humans were rather frail and brittle by nature. Very few times had he met someone otherwise.

Well… there was no point to mull over bleak topics when he was granted a rare moment of peace.

Russia got up from his seat. His legs cramped from lack of use but he ignored them as he made his way tp the half-opened liquor cabinet.

It seemed he was running low on vodka. He reminded himself to go out sometime and resupply himself.

He only started to reach out his hand when-

Pain.

White hot, burning pain.

It was as if someone was driving a glowing poker through the back of his skull. Russia gasped out in shock as he held his head in his hands but they proved to be of little comfort.

The pain was growing stronger and it showed no signs of stopping. He screamed as his vision dyed over to the same color of his eyelids.

Something hard collided with his spine and he didn't even realize he had stumbled backwards, crashing into the bookshelf. Russia fell to his knees and then to his side.

Then it felt as if something had entered his chest to constrict his lungs. He gasped out, desperate for air.

Panic, fear, and agony flashed in his mind, drowning out everything else. What was happening? Why was it happening? Why isn't it stopping?
Helplessness began to take over as Russia realized he couldn't do anything about what was happening to him.

The pain subsided enough for his vision to return. His pupils burned as he tried to gain awareness. His fingers clawed at his ribs as if he was trying to tear open his own chest to make room for his lungs.

Someone entered his study. He couldn't turn his neck to see who it was. They were probably standing over him, asking him if he was all right—it's not like Russia knew for sure anyways.

His whole body was left to convulse and throb. He eagerly embraced the soothing darkness when it came.

- - - - - - - - -

Ivan was alone when he woke up. He had not moved from his spot on the rough carpet. He blinked, trying to rid his vision of stars as he sat up. That was a mistake however, since his head began to swim. He slumped against the front of his desk for support.

Through the slits of his eyes, Russia saw several sheets of paper, broken glass, and heavy books sprawled open everywhere—no doubt it was from him.

He noticed the door was closed. That was strange—he vaguely remembered someone entering his office at the time of his episode. It was true, he was in a state of severe pain but he was sure it wasn't a part of his imagination either.

Russia grasped onto the corner of his desk to force himself up. A dull pain pulsated from his heart and he grimaced. He reached for the phone and dialed, the call didn't make it through, however. He tried again, no success. It seemed the line outside had been damaged… Or sabotaged. He dropped the phone, which hit the desk with a clatter.

He tried the radio next. He received nothing but white noise.

Ah… This is very, very strange.

He opened the door to the rest of his house. The air smelled drafty and of something else…

...It smelled of gun smoke and rubber.

It was a shame he didn't have his pipe with him… He left it on the dining room table, didn't he?

His slow and cautious footsteps were silent as he walked to the center of his bare living room. The house was eerily silent itself.

His violet eyes were cold and searching.

"How long have you been here?" Russia asked aloud. There was a sharp click behind him.

"We've just arrived. I was going to search your office next. That's where Alexandrov said he left you," the voice off a middle-aged man answered.

"Oh, Dmitri?" Russia asked casually, seemingly unfazed. He turned around to look at the missing Security Council member. "So it was you then? You were the one who assassinated Tarasov."

Berliavskii still had the pistol pointed at Russia. "Sergei was unfit to rule over this country. It's a shame I had to end it that way but he refused to resign peacefully. "

So it was true then. He admitted it. Ivan wasn't mistaken…

"So you shot the prime minister as well?" He found himself disliking people more and more by the second. There were several more pairs of heavy footsteps behind him but he didn't bother to look.

"They were two idle fools. No one was afraid for either of their deaths. They let the East reduce themselves to what they are now—I'm planning to fix everything."

He's mad, Russia noted. Someone came up from behind him, gripped his neck and threw him to his knees. Ivan found little strength to retaliate. So his children were turning against him as well now.

The ex-Council member lowered himself to his level. He leered, flashing an ugly grin before pistol-whipping Ivan directly in the face.

Russia didn't falter as blood and spit splattered against the floor. Warm liquid dribbled from his nose and pooled at the corners of his mouth as he smiled. Berliavskii's own grin dropped as he knocked Russia to his side. Despite the burning pain on his face, he could only laugh.

They were all useless.

- - - - - - - - -

Russia woke up for the second time that day (or was the day already over?).

He was confined to a dank and poorly lit room. The clammy air made his skin twitch. Ivan recognized it as one of his own chambers where he had locked Lithuania in several times before—how dreadfully ironic.

He must be laughing at him now. It was the turn of the century, and here he was—strapped to a bench and hooked up with several tubes that led to ominous-looking monitors; by his own people for that matter.

Russia realized he couldn't move his limbs at all even though his bindings were fairly loose. They were drugging him into helplessness.

He didn't receive enough satisfaction from imagining Berliavskii's disfigurement. Something feral stirred within his core as Ivan thought about how ungrateful his people were.

"Ah, Toris… Are you happy now? This is what you've wished for isn't it?"

- - - - - - - - -

Several times over, masked men would enter the room only to stab him in the neck with various syringes. Ivan guessed they were only more narcotics to keep him under "control". He was to blindly receive the drugs whether he wanted them or not. He couldn't even make out whom these people were. His eyes watered from the constant exposure to the light that was placed over his head.

When they appeared to be finished, they would quietly leave only to return the next day—needles in hand.

- - - - - - - - -

An immeasurable amount of time passed. Russia was long stripped of his clothes that had probably been discarded onto the floor.

A flimsy cloth was tossed over his middle for a replacement. Fresh lacerations littered his chest. They didn't even bother to bandage them up, leaving the cuts to bleed out.

Sometimes when the morphine had worn off enough, he would struggle against his bindings, shouting out curses in Russian.

Sometimes a hand would've taken him by the face and smash his head against the hard surface of the bench. Then he would receive a sharp jab in his neck, causing the pain to ebb away along with his sanity.

Slowly, Slowly…

Someone entered and Russia found his body tense up like a frightened animal.

He tried to think who it might be, but Ivan had already forgotten their names a long time ago.

For some time—he lost his sense of time a while ago as well—the shadowy figure stood over him, his face hidden by the blinding light.
Finally, he demanded, "Who is 'Toris'?"

Ivan remained silent, wishing this person would leave him.

Something collided with his mouth and he tasted copper.

"I said," the voice hissed, "who is 'Toris'?" Fingers reached out from the surrounding darkness, gripping his jaw forcefully.

"Tor-is?" Ivan managed to rasp.

His mouth was struck for a second time and he grimaced, swallowing a mouthful of saliva and blood.

"Yes Toris. I've been told you've been screaming that name every time my men operated on you. Who is it?"

"It seems I have forgotten…"

"Lies!"

There was a searing pain in his abdomen and Russia realized he had just been stabbed with one of the surgical knives. The instrument was ripped out and positioned between two of his ribs threateningly.

"If you were like one of us, you would've eventually died from that wound. How many of these will you be able to handle, though? So… I'm asking you again, who is Toris?"

Ivan chose not to answer. He cried out in agony as the thin blade pierced through his right lung.

His face was brought down close to his now. "You're so stubborn. No one is coming to rescue you. I'll make sure no one else will share in the paradise I'll create. You're trapped here until you agree to serve me."

Through the blinding pain, Russia found the strength to spit in his face.

He had already braced himself when his side was slashed open.

"I want you to give him a more concentrated dose." He cast him a disgusted look before whirling around and exiting.

Ivan almost accepted the anesthesia willingly. Almost.

- - - - - - - - -

His eyelids felt heavy when the needle was slipped out from under his skin. Whatever they injected him with caused his veins to sear but at least the three incisions had clotted—he wouldn't have to worry about bleeding to death any time soon.

Aside from his shuddering breaths, it was quiet in the room—he was alone once again.

Or at least he thought he was. Through the light, Russia noticed a green figure at the corner of his eye. His tormentors always wore white, so who…?

"Lithuania…?"

"You don't look well, Russia," his warm voice murmured. Ivan thought he could survive on the sound of his voice alone—it was so sweet.

"Ah, perhaps not."

His fingers fumbled over the buckles. "I can't free you…"

Russia ignored his exhaustion as he struggled to remain awake. "Of course not." For some reason, he didn't find it strange that Lithuania was with him in a place like this.

Toris's fingers brushed Ivan's hair lightly—oh so lightly—as he placed a soft kiss on his forehead. It was so light that he barely felt it. The ghost of his breath lingered on his face.

"Ah, it seems that someone is here to see you," Lithuania said abruptly as Russia heard faint footsteps from beyond the door.

The knob clicked and turned and the door creaked open. Whoever it was found only a single person to be there.

"Who have you been talking to?" A heavily accented voice asked. Ah… What was his name again? It was Yao, wasn't it? Something from the back of his mind told him Yao was someone just like him. He couldn't say for sure, his memory had been gradually deteriorating since the day he was first confined.

"Only to myself," Russia answered impassively. "Who are you?"

The light clicked off and darkness flooded his vision for a moment. When he finally got used to the dimness, he craned his neck to see who it was. "You don't recognize me?"

The man was short and thin (though perhaps not as thin as him). "So it is you."

China frowned. "Yes, it's me. I thought you would be a little happier to see me instead of them."

Russia disregarded what he just said. "Why are you here?"

His frown deepened. "I'm just trying to help you. Ivan, why are you fighting? You don't have to go through this. Both Berliavskii and Golovkin need your cooperation to end the war. "

Russia ignored the pain in his abdomen and side as he chuckled. The names sounded familiar but he didn't bother to try and search his weakening memory. "I'm in no position to choose any sides, Yao. I'm afraid I've already lost myself. If you're here to lecture me, I suggest you leave. I don't think my mind can take it anymore."

China tapped the crude bandaging on his middle. "I don't approve of their methods but…"

"You would sympathize with dictators rather than with me," Ivan finished for him. "Don't feel guilty, I've received more shattering treatment."

China snatched back his hand. He understood the insult hidden beneath the mild tones. He didn't reply when he turned to leave. The door slammed behind him.

Russia sighed. "That was a very short visit."

"I think you had something to do with that, Russia," Lithuania said. "Maybe Mr. China really did want to help."

"You heard everything?"

"You know I did."

"I see. Well they are all foolish. I'm only trying to keep my people from perishing in this madman's war. Even if they are ungrateful and depraved, I must try my best to help them."

Lithuania cupped his cheek with a ghostly (yet somehow warm) hand. "So you really do care about them."

- - - - - - - - -

Lithuania was standing over him as he shook feverishly. Today had been a particularly bad day. He guessed it must've been punishment for his unceasing defiance—the small area of skin near his right side had been excoriated.

There was no more energy left in him to look down to see how bad his exposed muscles had scabbed over.

Toris traced the horrific wound with gentle fingers. He was surprised to feel no pain from the touch itself.

"Oh Ivan…"

He wanted nothing more than to rest against Lithuania's arms instead of this hard bench. However, the accursed constrictions made most physical contact between them impossible.

As if reading his mind, Toris placed his hand over Ivan's comfortingly. Even though he had been deprived of his regular injections of narcotics, he couldn't bring himself to do as much as move his fingers in response.

"Toris," it sounded like more of a plea than he had intended. "Toris," he tried again.

Lithuania wasn't there anymore.

- - - - - - - - -

Russia found himself craving the drugs that were being imbued into his bloodstream more and more. He realized that they helped clarify Lithuania's form along with his voice. Seeing him clearly meant he didn't have to be alone in this.

"You're all I have," he said after the others left.

Toris eyed his thinning body. "You can't go on like this. Why did you tell them to cut off your feed? Even before, you were barely given enough nutrients to prevent starvation."

He gave him a sickly grin. "So you won't leave me," he replied simply.

"I think you've lost your sanity, Ivan."

"I know." He repeated, "You're all I have."

- - - - - - - - -

"Russia, today's going to be different."

He stirred from his sleep. "How so?" He managed to croak. His limbs felt so stiff—he longed to stretch them out. As he thought of that, he noticed that his bindings felt slightly looser than usual.

"Mr. China came in again while you were sleeping. I think he tampered with the buckles and the anesthesia. Well that's what he was mumbling to himself about." Lithuania shrugged. That explained the obscure words Russia barely heard in his dreams.

He made a move to sit up. "No don't!" He stopped, looking up at Lithuania for an explanation. "You should save your energy. Take him when he least expects it." Toris pointed at the long surgical knife that was left on top of one of the monitors.

"And here I thought you were the peaceful one…" There was a dull tapping emanating from the hallway.

Lithuania's grin was sharp and cruel—it matched Ivan's perfectly. "Here he comes. Don't hold back—rip open that face as much as you'd like. " The footsteps steadily grew louder. "Make him pay, Ivan. I won't stop you."

A beam of light fell over his form when the door opened.

"Does the dog still bite?" It was a taunt.

Russia mumbled something. He shaped his voice into something defeated to mask his actual intention. His right hand twitched in vengeful anticipation. Not yet…

Closer, Closer…

"So this is the level he has fallen to?" It was a different voice from the first. Russia barely found it familiar—it was definitely younger than the former though. "How pitiful," the voice sneered, "to see the great Motherland like this."

"I guess I didn't need your help after all," the first voice laughed, "the war is as good as done—Golovkin is dead. Isn't that right, Alexandrov?" Ah yes, Dmitri Alexandrov… That's who he was. The first person who assisted in throwing him into this hell was in the same room with him. How delightful. He could hardly control his fingers now.

The older man was bending over him, delivering more taunting words to his face, "All that you've been fighting for has been a waste. I told you from the beginning, you should've given up. It could've saved you ten years worth of suffering." So a decade had passed ever since—he would've never even realized. Ivan resisted the growing urge. No, not yet… He couldn't mess this one chance up.

For a split second, his eyes darted to the second man. His attention was curiously focused on the several monitors and his back was facing him, unprotected—perfect.

Russia mumbled something, bringing the first man obscenely close. His arms snaked from beneath the bondage with unnatural stealth. His cold fingers merged with the equally cold metal.

Careful, Careful…

"What was that? Have you been struck dumb now?" He hissed.

Russia replied by carving a duplicate smirk below his Adam's apple. With unnerving speed, he grasped the top of his neck and squeezed, completely blocking his passage from making any sound. The corners of Ivan's mouth pulled into a smile as he gazed with fascination into the bulging eyes, struggling limbs, and pooling blood.

Russia dropped him with a dull thud when he stopped moving.

Satisfaction squirmed within him as he shuddered.

He slid from underneath the buckles and gathered his strength into his knees as he stepped onto solid ground. The world wavered, but he silently advanced towards the oblivious one anyway.

He resisted the urge to giggle. The man named Alexandrov was still unaware of the fresh corpse that was lying right behind him.

He turned around at the last moment, "Berliavskii, sir-" he wasn't given a chance to finish for Russia had already plunged the gore-covered knife through his right eye.

His mouth was frozen in a silent scream. The man was already dead but Ivan twisted the blade in deeper and deeper. Finally he loosened his fingers, allowing the body to drop lifelessly—knife and all.

He tilted his head, his expression full of mirth. His feet and palms were stained red now.

Russia treaded to the corner of the room to pick up his coat and scarf, which he draped around himself. He ignored the stains he left on the beige cloth as he took a loaded pistol from one of their belts before exiting the room—the first time in years.

The clear light burned his eyes at first, but it didn't take long before he got used to it.

"Hey Toris…"

Bang. Someone dropped to the floor, blood gathering around his head. Others followed suite.

"Today is going to be a good day-"

Bang Bang. Fingers separated from their now-dead owner.

"Because…"

One last soldier remained. He scrambled for the front door and Russia made sure he heard his last words.

"…This war is over now."

- - - - - - - - -

A great pile of ash served as their makeshift grave. Hours earlier he had tossed every reminder of his ordeal into the flames. The sparks that flew from the dying machinery had long died out and the guns the dead soldiers had carried with them were nothing more than shapeless lumps of twisted metal lying in the ashes.

Ivan left the incinerated remains for his room, gathering bottles of vodka along the way—he still gave off the stench of melted rubber and burning flesh.

When he reached his own room, he drank.

And drank.

As depression set in, he threw an empty bottle across the room. He half-expected Lithuania to reappear by his side to soothe him, congratulate him. He was alive now, was he not?

It wasn't long before Ivan drained every bottle. Fatigue began to take its toll. He curled up on his bed, wrapping his arms around the night.

-x-X-x-

Confusing chapter is confusing.
*Dies from exhaustion* Dear god, I am so tired x-x

My block is slowly getting better.

I have state testing tomorrow orz. Wish me luck? o3o Ill be taking a short break so I can focus on the exams, k?

Ah crap, I almost forgot. To all anon reviewers; thank you for your support! I would tell you all that personally but… yeah xD'