yay for sudden inspiration.
A sharp pain in his stomach woke Arthur from his sleep. He groaned groggily, and placed a hand on his stomach. Another sharp pain erupted, followed by a low grumbling noise.
He was starving, he realized, pushing himself up into a sitting position.
As soon as Fred had finished showing him the News report he had untied Arthurs hands and left the room. It had only been when a loud bang resounded through the room that Arthur even realized the man had moved. That had been a long time ago; though how long he wasn't sure, but he guessed it had to be several days.
Arthur sighed and glanced over at the door and noted the plastic bowl sitting on the ground in front of a small dog door, which he had missed earlier.
Arthur stood up and padded over to the bowl, peering down at the contents.
'Oh joy, cold spaghetti rings….' He thought sarcastically. He picked up the dish and sighed when he noticed that they hadn't given him eating utensils. He sat down on the floor, crossing his legs in front of him and leaned against the wall.
"Better than nothing, I suppose…" he grumbled to himself.
He sipped at the cold red paste and winced at the extra salty flavor. He'd never been a fan of artificial foods.
Arthur finished the bowl quickly. It hadn't filled him up in the least, but it had stopped the stabbing pain in his stomach.
Placing the bowl back on the ground he glanced at the television, and scowled.
The sadistic bastard had somehow rigged it to where none of the channels would play except for the new video.
Arthur gritted his teeth. He'd been framed, and he was one hundred percent certain that Fred had something to do with it.
Which meant that even if Arthur did manage to escape he'd have nowhere to go. He couldn't go to Alfred with the Union government searching for him. And going to Mexico would be foolish… Fred was surely an expert at leaving very few options but to follow him…
'Wait…' he though, eyebrows furrowing slightly. Wasn't there some country to the north of America? Some country everyone seemed to forget?
A loud gasp filled the room. "Canada!" Arthur exclaimed, before slapping a hand over his mouth, not wanting there to be any possibility that someone might over hear him.
He would wait for the perfect time to escape, than make his way to the North; to Canada.
Surely he would help him…
George glanced over at the Nation before him for the umpteenth time. Alfred was obviously sulking, his lips pursed with his head resting on his hand, elbow pressed into the table.
Whether America was sulking because Russia was coming or because the problems happening with England, George wasn't sure.
It had been three days since the phone call from London, warning them to be on the lookout for Arthur Kirkland, saying that his plane should be arriving in Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport in two hours.
When George had told the nation about it, he had speed out of the room and was off to the airport before George could stop him.
George frowned, remembering the state Alfred had come back in. The man had looked panicked, worry filling his sky blue eyes. He had asked the nation what had happened and was told that Alfred had gotten there in time for the plane to land, but hadn't been able to find the older man. And that, when Alfred had asked around, no one by that name had even been on the plane.
A brief knock at the door brought both men out of their thoughts.
Alfred lifted his head and dropped his hand into his lap.
"Come in," George called.
The door opened, and Linda walked in. Alfred straightened his back a little more, and George didn't miss how the nations smile turned a bit flirtatious. The president resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
"Sir, an Ivan Braginsky is here to see you." Linda announced pointedly ignoring Alfred.
George nodded slightly. "You may let him in."
Alfred sighed when Linda left, pout returning to his face slightly. "I try to be nice to her, but all she does is ignore me," the nation whined aloud to his boss. "I mean isn't it obvious how much I like her?"
George raised an eyebrow. "Do you like her because she reminds you of someone?" he asked curiously, before taking a sip of his coffee.
Alfred turned to look at his president confused. "Wha-?"
But before America had a chance to ask, the door opened, and the tall Russian nation walked in to the room.
"Good afternoon." George greeted, standing up. "Thank you for coming."
Ivan smiled pleasantly, sending shivers down Alfred's spine. "I am sorry that my boss couldn't make it. He had some… business to attend to." His smile widened his thick Russian accent thick with false charm.
"That's alright," George said, with a wave of his hand and motioned for the Russian to have a seat. "This meeting is only to discuss our pact. I'm sure that the three of us will be able to take care of it."
The smile faltered slightly as Ivan sat down. He tilted his head to the side slightly and locked eyes with the American president. Alfred glanced hesitantly between the two of them, feeling the intimidating air roll off of the Russian.
The smile returned, but Ivan's eyes darkened. "I had assumed that since my boss wasn't here, that it would be just American and I who would be discussing these terms." He said.
Alfred tensed, and clenched his fists under the table. Oh dear God, he did not want to be in a room along with Ivan…
He glanced over at George, who looked thoughtful. Alfred quickly decided that if George was going to leave him with the Russian, than the first chance Alfred got he would run to Virginia and join the army.
"Yes, very well, I understand," George said quickly, and stood up. Alfred gaped at him. "Alfred, I trust you already know most of the things we were to discus." He didn't, and both, if not all three, men knew that. "But here are my notes in case you've forgotten something."
George passed over a small green folder to the nation and left the room.
Alfred cursed his boss under his breath, and thumbed through the folder to try not to meet the eyes of the crazed Russian.
"So…" America began, scratching the back of his head. "Let's get this thing started…"
There was a loud band on the door that startled Arthur into an upright position. He glanced at the only exit, and got to his feet and moved away.
The door swung open, crashing against the wall in the spot he'd been previously sitting in. Several men stood in the doorway, each with gruff exteriors and each with hand held guns, which were trained on his figure.
He sneered at them, but raised his hands to show that he wasn't going to do anything stupid.
A man stepped forward, and lowered his gun only slightly. He had piercing clear blue eyes that reminded Arthur strongly of Ludwig, but his hair was darker and shaved close to his head. A red bandana, sporting the confederate flag covered the lower portion of his face.
"Boss says 'e wants ta show yew 'round the base." He announced, voice muffled by the bandana, and his thick southern drawl made it hard for Arthur to understand him clearly.
"Jus' don' do nothin' and we won' 'have ta shoot ya." The man added, moving around to stand behind the Englishman. Arthur turned his head to try and follow him, not trusting him behind his back. But something cold pressed in between his shoulder blades, seeping in through his thin button up shirt; the barrel of the gun. He froze and glared at the wall before him.
"Walk." The man behind him ordered, pressing the gun deeper into Arthurs back.
Arthur squared his shoulders, back arching just enough so that the gun was no longer digging in, and began walking.
The men at the door move aside for him, staring at him suspiciously; their guns trained on him, just waiting for an excuse to fire at him.
Arthur squinted his eyes in the bright sunlight. The room had only a dim light bulb in the center of the ceiling, which flickered every now and then. It was such a stark contract that he paused briefly, only to be shoved forward by the man behind him.
He growled lightly, and stumbled slightly before he managed to catch himself before he hit the ground. The men around him snickered and jeered quietly.
Arthur ignored them in favor of looking around. His eyes widened in surprise. He was standing amongst tons of rubble, all in various shapes and shades of grey.
A once proud American city was now nothing but pieces of debris and very few structures still stood. There were no people that he could see, and everything was deadly quiet. None of the buildings stood higher than a second story house.
Arthur took in the once mighty skyscrapers and wondered which city this had once been. It wasn't New York, of that he was sure. Even in ruins he would be able to tell that city apart from any other.
"Get movin'," a voice, a little bit deeper than the man who had first talked to him, growled out. Arthur glanced down at his feet and noticed a small path that zigzagged through the remains. It led to what had once been the middle of the street than veered off.
Arthur took a step forward, than another. He picked his way slowly along the path, not familiar to the terrain. The men behind him were audibly irritated, constantly telling him to hurry up and some even gave him 'encouraging' pushes forward.
He sighed in irritation, wanting nothing more than to turn around and smash all their heads together.
"Johnson." The first man called to a man behind him. "Get in fron' of Brows 'e's 'avin' trouble."
Arthur whipped his head around and glared at the taller man. "Brows?" he growled. "My name is Arthur you twat!" he spat.
He was grabbed roughly by the front of his shirt, and was dragged towards the man. He stumbled slightly, but managed to gain his footing back, his glare not faltering in the slightest.
The man glared back, pulling down his bandana so he could speak better. "We don' use first names 'round 'ere. You're in no possession ta be demandin' we call ya Arthur." He spat his name as if it was something foul. "You'll be Brows till ya give us your name. An' maybe even 'fterwards."
Arthur clenched his teeth, cold fury boiling in his chest. He wanted so badly to yell, scream, punch, kick, anything to this man, consequences and guns be damned. But if he ever wanted to escape, he would have to be docile.
"Kirkland." He grated out. Well as docile as he could be anyway.
The man looked him over for a moment, than burst out laughing. He released the front of Arthurs' shirt and pushed him away. Arthur stumbled again, the back of his foot connecting with a large rock. He fell backwards, a low grunt of pain escaping when his backside connected with the ground, and the back of his head against a wall of rubble. His vision swam specs of black and white dancing around, before it finally cleared.
"You gots fire in ya, Kirklan'," The man before him grinned widely, an amused glint in his eyes. "My name's Smith, and the man behin' me is Johnson. An' that's all ya need ta know fer now."
Arthur rubbed the back of his head gingerly, than inspected his hand for blood. There wasn't any.
He pushed himself back up, and dusted off the back of his shirt and pants. He remained silent as Johnson stepped around Smith, glancing Arthur over suspiciously, gun clenched in his hand. Johnson was shorter than Smith, though not by much, and certainly taller than Arthur. His hair was buzzed short like Smiths, and its color even darker. His eyes were a dark, murky hazel color.
"Follow me." he said shortly, turning away and walking with expertise through the small path. Johnson shoved Arthur forward, to get him moving.
Arthur sighed irritated. He had a feeling he was going to be pushed around a lot during his stay with these men.
They continued down the small path, walking silently. After a while Arthur had gotten the hang of it and only occasionally stumbled. Arthur guessed that they had been walking for an hour or two, since the sun was now hovering over the buildings, which were getting smaller and smaller and more spread out.
Smith jeered at him almost constantly, switching between calling him 'Kirklan'' and 'Brows'. He pushed at Arthur and prodded him with the gun when he wasn't going fast enough.
Arthur had snapped at him more than several times, earning even more pushes and some punches, leaving a particularly nasty one on his bicep. Smith was starting to remind him a lot of his brothers.
They were finally getting to the end of the city, the path had widened and the ruble was getting scarce. Johnson turned to the right and began heading towards an abandoned warehouse.
"We're here." He announced, earning a small cheer from the men.
The warehouse was untouched by the destruction that had devastated every other building around it. But the building was old and rusted, the steel doors looking as if they would crumble at the slightest touch.
Johnson stepped up to the steel door and knocked once, twice, than four more times. He paused for a moment, seeming to listen for something inside the building, than opened the door.
Arthur was pushed in first, followed closely by the other men.
"Boss, we're back!" Smith called out as Arthur looked around the room. The building was very bare, but there were men everywhere. They were crouched on the ground, playing games, or absentmindedly shining their shoes. Most had looked up when the group had entered the building.
Several men looked surprised to see Arthur, while many others were suspicious of a new arrival.
All voices hushed, and all eyes turned towards him. Arthur raised his head, refusing to show any weakness to these men.
"Boss!" Smith called again, peering towards the back of the building. "Hey," he said, turning to a man sitting on the ground beside him. "Where's the boss?"
The man stared up at him, glancing over at Arthur hesitantly before looking back at Smith. "'e's at the trainin' area. Left 'bout half an 'our 'go." He answered.
Smith sighed. "Time ta go back outside, Kirklan'," He said wrapping an arm around Arthur's shoulder and forcing him back outside. "Ya comin' Johnson?" he called over his shoulder.
"Someone has to keep you out of trouble." Johnson responded, stepping out of the building as well. "You may stay here if you wish men."
Arthur noticed that Johnson's accent wasn't thick like Smiths was, in fact it sounded almost... He shrugged Smiths arm off of him, and glanced back at Johnson.
"Where are you from?" he asked, curiously, locking eyes with the man.
Johnson looked surprised for a second, before he crossed his arms over his chest. He was silent for a while, and Arthur was starting to wonder if he would get an answer to his question.
"Go 'head an' tell 'im Johnson. It's not as if it'll 'urt ya. We'll be with 'im fer a while it seems." Smith replied, smiling at Johnson.
"I grew up in Oklahoma, but I was born in a country called Sealand." Johnson responded, than glared at him. "Now no more questions." He snapped, moving past him.
Peter. The name ran through England's head and he wondered how the small country was doing. He had been a country for almost ten years now.
'He's probably glad that I'm gone.' He though. Peter and his other brothers were probably so glad to finally be rid of him…
An arm wrapped around his shoulders again, and he was forcefully turned around. He glared up at Smith, thoroughly annoyed, only to be grinned at again. "'m from South Carolina. Ain't ever been outa the state till the war though... It's pretty excitin'." He said as they began to walk.
"Now, now, Smith, don't go bothering our guest." A voice said from behind them. Arthur tensed.
"Hey boss." Smith greeted, arm slipping off of Arthur.
Arthur turned around slowly and locked eyes with Fred.
Fred grinned, and motioned around him. "How are you enjoying the city of Memphis, Princess?"
Yeah... sorry that i didn't really expand on Alfred and Ivan, it was my first time writting him in my story. please tell me how did i do on him so i know what all i need to work on with him.