the weather outside is frightful

HOUR 3 - 09:00 EST - CHRISTMAS EVE

"Next question!" The Loot Lyft driver spun the wheel, and the vehicle cruised into line with the others exiting the tunnel. Japan had been in the car for an eternity now due to the traffic, and was beginning to feel sick. South Korea kept elbow-poking him. China's stomach was rumbling. Hong Kong had used up one of their shout-outs by broadcasting the question onto his social media. (Iceland, Taiwan, and Seychelles had all answered and subsequently got the Christmas-themed question wrong, anyway.) They had earned a total of two hundred and fifty dollars, lost their yellow-light challenge, and had only one strike to go before the host kicked them out onto the cold, crowded, snowy street. That was how it worked. In this way, they depended on the taxi. They could not afford to get another question wrong, or they would never get to the airport. It was the cruelest game.

The driver began to read off their next question in that scratchy yet melodic drone of his: "You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Blitzen, Connor and 'blank,' and Donner and Blitzen. But do you recall the missing reindeer—and I don't mean Rudolph, mind you—named after the Roman god of love? You have thirty seconds."

"Oh crap!" Korea closed his eyes, mumbling the song over and over to himself. "I forget, I forget, Japan-hyung!"

Japan wracked his brain, but the song would not come to him. "Forgive me if I am wrong, but isn't the Roman god of love Venus?"

"He said god," corrected Hong Kong. "Venus is, like, female. Goddess. English."

China kept slapping his knees. "I know this, I know this, aru! America plays this song all the time! Arguheuhr! I want this money, we can't lose this money! I don't even celebrate Christmas!"

The driver up front smiled to himself. What a load of idiots. Obviously ignorant foreigners. They wouldn't last another day in the city.

Sickness creeped into Japan's stomach as the car's decorative lights flashed above him. America did play the song quite often, but he didn't have it memorized, either. "I…I do not know. I truly don't know."

Hong Kong buried his head in his hands while South Korea cussed up a storm larger than the one outside.

The driver tipped their designer fedora. "Ten seconds remaining. Would you like me to repeat the question? Or, you could use a street shout-out!"

"What?" China leaned forward. "What's that? Let's do that."

The driver's white-gloved hands moved over the wheel. "A street shout-out, yes. I'll pull over, and you can ask anyone you see on the sidewalk for help on the question. But you better choose wisely, because if they get it wrong, you're out!" The camera zoomed in intensely.

They all sweated as the fanfare played. It was this, or say goodbye to getting home on time. Really, they wouldn't have made it home in time for Christmas anyway, being so distanced in the first place, but still...but still.

The Loot Lyft swerved up and came to a stop by the side of the road, jumping through three lanes of near-standstill traffic to do so. Cars all around them honked, like the sounding of horns before the reckoning. China, now closest to the side of the road, rolled down the window. A blast of winter breath hit Japan directly in the face, but after he cleared the snow out of his eyes and neck, he caught a glimpse of the one person who just might save their lives.

Coatless, huddled against the side of a building next to a homeless person and a cardboard box, sat none other than Greece.

Japan shoved China back and leaned almost the entire upper half of his body out the window to shout, "Greece-san! Help us!"

The man barely looked up. Next to him, the homeless guy was trying to start a trashcan fire. "Who…"

"We're in the Loot Lyft!" South Korea hollered, practically laying on top of Japan in an attempt to be heard. "We need help on a question!"

Greece slowly ideled over. "What is the question?"

"Christmas!" explained Japan, maneuvering around the pile of coats and bodies obstructing him as respectfully as possible. "We have to name a—a reindeer from that song! Do you recall? Not Rudolph! The driver says, it is named after the god of love."

"And not the goddess of love," Hong Kong chimed in for good measure.

Greece looked off into the cloudy distance. "Japan, my best friend…" He seemed to be living on another plane of existence at the moment. He wore only a scruffy green sweater, but stood statuesque and un-shivering against the blizzard. A block away, a tiny cat emerged from behind a dumpster, sensing him. "This is so...metaphorical…"

Japan found his cheeks were rosy. Maybe from the cold. "Please, do you know?"

"Yes." Greece whipped back to stare him directly in the eyes. "The Greek god of love is Eros."

"Eros!" shouted China and Hong Kong simultaneously.

"Eros!" echoed Korea. "I just remembered! It is Eros! Yeah!"

"Eros is the answer!" Japan relayed to the driver. Relief flooded back into him. The holidays were saved. "Greece, I give you all my gratitude."

"Ah…" The driver of the Loot Lyft laughed softly and jazzily. "I'm so sorry, contestants! On any other day, I would say y'all were technically correct, but not today, ho ho no! The correct answer is Cupid."

Angry snow thunder resounding across the island was the only noise.

Then, Japan was so overcome with humiliation he smacked himself. "Roman god. Roman god."

"Ah, damn," stated Greece simply. "Cursed Romans."

The Loot Lyft theme began again as the driver's chocolatey vocals erupted into high-pitched cackling. "He he he! That's three strikes, my overexcitable and probably gay Asian companions! And you know what that means, don't you?YOU'RE OUT!"

Miles away, South Italy pricked as if someone had touched him in a pressure point. He turned on his younger brother, outraged. "Veneziano! Did you feel that? Someone just cursed us!"

"We're already cursed!" Veneziano wailed, flinging out his arm and somehow accidentally hitting Germany twice in one fell swoop. He had been despairing.

Russia had strangely never come back from his investigation into what was truly going on at JFK International Airport, but the symbolism was clear. Now, the nations who had arrived sat together at a pseudo-gourmet food lounge stewing over the consequences and desperately trying to make calls without a signal. The airport WiFi was crap. What also added to the fact was that, a few minutes ago outside, Armageddon had begun.

Finland, as he stared with lifeless eyes into an organic salad that would never stare back, could feel it. With every angry snowflake that touched ground, he felt more and more like them...like it—like an angry snowflake. Christmas had already begun in certain parts of the world, and he had missed it. Sure, he wasn't the only force behind the holiday phenomenon that was "Santa," and always had backup ready to go in case an emergency happened. Oh, yes, he was no amateur at this. All of it was classified to the other nations, however—a state secret. What would become of the world if everyone knew how exactly presents were distributed to children everywhere on Christmas? Still, Finland felt miserable and wished he could be the one out there driving the sleigh and spreading good fortune.

Overcome with anguish, he reached across from him and held Sweden's hand through the gloves they had kept on due to the severe heat radiating from their insulated coffee cups. "Tell me everything's not doomed. Tell me."

Sweden gazed at him. To passerby, it may have looked chilling, but to Finland, it looked warm. "Everythin's not doomed." (Little did the happy couple know, but everything was, most certainly, doomed.)

Finland clutched his overflowing heart. "Oh, thank you!"

A few tables away, Denmark pretended to choke on a Danish. "Would you look at them. By Odin's beard, get a room."

Norway casually turned the page of the celebrity gossip tabloid he was reading. "You're one to talk. Stop trying to deepthroat the Danish. There are children around."

Denmark's eyes bulged. He then began actually choking on the Danish.

"Yeah," complained Sealand. "I'm the children around."

Iceland took out his other earbud, looked vaguely disgusted, and then put both earbuds back in. This family—he swore.

A ragtag group of Germanics was walking down the side of the road, dodging patches of ice and spray from the occasional car. A few taxis idled, in case they wanted a ride, but Liechtenstein bitterly waved them away. No way would she make Big Brother look bad.

Hungary walked in silence, giving Austria a piggy back ride. Liechtenstein hoped she was okay. Switz and Austria didn't always get along, but Liechtenstein was very fond of Miss Hungary. She was pretty and composed and—

"BUS!" Hungary screamed, and dropped Austria in the snow.

"Please stop doing that," Switzerland said through gritted teeth, but Hungary was already running. A huge tour bus rumbled at a stoplight, like some sleepy mammoth with a cold.

"I'm not riding in that…abomination!" Austria protested from his place on the ground.

"No buts!" Hungary screeched at him, and kicked some snow on him for good measure. Liechtenstein felt bad but not that bad. This was all his fault, anyway. She kicked some snow at him too.

At the end of his surprisingly long rope, Switzerland bit out a curse and grabbed Austria by the ankles. "I can walk!" squawked the latter, like a ruffled bird.

"Not fast enough," Switzerland answered.

The countries assembled outside of the sliding door and waited for it to open. They shivered as the wind bit at their faces; huge, gray clouds rolled across the sky. Hungary hauled Austria to his feet. Switzerland prayed. Liechtenstein fiddled with the bow in her hair. The doors hissed open. Warm, musty air wafted into the cold and everyone coughed.

"Hey, hey, how you doin' today?" said the driver, a young man with an elf hat and aviator sunglasses. He made a grand, sarcastic gesture. "Welcome to the best tour bus in Midtown! You lucky people are the only ones crazy enough to hail me today, and it's probably not even worth it, but I need gas money so I will condescend to give you a lift."

Austria mumbled something about self-important bastards while Switzerland mumbled something about hypocrites. Hungary stomped on them both.

"That's very generous of you!" she said brightly. "We actually are looking for the JFK airport."

The man whistled, already shaking his head. "Sorry lady, no can do! That's not in my route. If you'd like I can take you on a top-class tour of this beautiful city, we can even stop and get some street food if you're feeling it, my parents actually run a Cuban restaurant—"

"No, thank you," Hungary said. She smiled, but it looked a little forced. "Are you sure you can't make an exception just this once? It's Christmas, and we need to get home."

The driver looked conflicted. He drummed an uneven beat on his steering wheel. "I would really really like to help y'all out, but I don't think I can… There's too much traffic, and there's always the chance that flights are cancelled anyway. I'm real sorry."

Hungary looked ready to fight—in fact, she tore off her mittens and threw them to the ground—but Switzerland stepped in front of her.

"Is there any way," he said, "we could change your mind?"

Everyone stared, aghast, as Switzerland conjured a roll of bills. Never breaking eye contact, he slid a single franc across the dashboard.

The driver took the bill, held it up to the light. "Wow," he said. "This is….a dollar. You literally just gave me a dollar."

Switzerland scowled. He reluctantly slid another bill across the dashboard.

"Two whole dollars."

Increasingly exasperated, Switzerland exclaimed, "Is that not enough?!"

Austria shoved him aside, then straightened his collar. "You goon, have you never bargained before? You can't be stingy when you're a beggar."

The driver looked more interested as Austria pulled out his wallet, and proceeded to hand him a small bill.

"Okay, I don't know much about European money, but I'm pretty sure this is like, three bucks, my dude."

Austria looked thoughtful. "...Please?"

The driver rolled his eyes. "Look, I don't know who you people are, but it's Christmas, and I'm very tired, and I want to go home to my judgemental abuelita and her dog. I wish you the best, but if you don't get off my bus, I'm calling the cops."

Austria looked ready to argue, but Hungary pushed him aside. "This is enough," she said, looking fearsome and uncompromising in her fur coat and heels. "You are our last chance at getting out of this country. You will take us to the airport, or we will throw you in the…the…what's the word I'm looking for? The dirty place?"

"A nightclub?"

"What? Sweetie, no! Anyway, we will throw you off of this bus, and believe me, sir, when I say we are untouchable."

Liechtenstein felt a grudging respect; the driver quailed under Hungary's attention, but rallied and set his face determinedly. "Lady, this is New York, I don't think you realize—"

Hungary grabbed the man and threw him from the bus.

Scores of yellow taxis were arriving outside the entrance to Terminal 1. Stepping from a particular one were the North American brothers, finally here to save the day!

"Got the bag?" called Canada over his shoulder, surveying the premises. It was about fifty meters to the doors through the howling blizzard wasteland. If they went fast and kept on a direct path, they just might be able to make it.

"Affirmative! Let's move out!" America shouted. In seconds they had catapulted from the cab. "Stay close!"

"Roger!" Their shoes touched the ground, and a frigid gust of wind almost knocked them off their feet. It was low visibility, but at least their glasses helped against the barrage of frozen raindrops. They hunched their backs against the storm, America protectively cradling the sack to his chest, US football-style. The cuckoo clock had gone off a few minutes ago, startling their taxi driver so much she had almost run them off a bridge. Another hour had passed. They knew there could now be no chance the countries weren't stranded without a flight, but pushed ahead anyway with the holiday spirit in their hearts lighting the way.

They reached the door and stumbled inside. It had almost been a close call. Canada had landed a few feet away, but they were both unharmed. The countries leaned into the blast of airport heat, enjoying it for a few fleeting seconds before they had to get back to business.

"Right." America flipped the sack back over his back. "Could you get my phone out of my coat? We need to find out where they are."

"Um, I'll use my own," Canada decided. "Who should we call?"

"Uh…" The two began walking through the terminal. It appeared some great war had taken place, and this was the aftermath: quiet lines, somber faces, flushed formal workers dashing about. America was surprised at how empty it looked. He glanced up at the information screens and was surprised no longer.

Okay, okay. America mumbled a curse to himself. They could fix this. There had to be at least one plane, right? His head spun with the complications. In his distraction, he accidentally bumped into a passing gang of security officers who were leading away a tall, bescarfed man holding a metal pipe.

"Ope, sorry," said the officer as they crossed by.

"My bad," America responded. "Merry X-ma—wait!"

At first, he had been thrown off by the accent, causing him to change his own accent, which was normally how it worked, but then he had noticed that the man the police were leading away was none other than Russia. And his pipe, of course. "Dude, what are you doing?"

All parties gawked at each other with confusion. "America!" Russia sputtered out. "What are you doing?" He gasped. "Did you hear? All the planes are cancelled!"

"This man has violated a security code." explained José uneasily. "You know him?"

Canada, solemn, closed his eyes and shook his head. (He tried to blend in with the background, which fortunately worked pretty well.)

Aw, crud. America was gonna hafta play this game now, too. He coughed. No, sir, I've never seen that dude before in my life. "Um...yes, actually; he's with me." Admittedly, he had debated just leaving Russia to the authorities, but decided that if Russia was going to be a tricky case, why not just clean up the mess and get the guy to his own country as fast as possible? Also, America felt awkward inside at the thought of leaving him, for just a few weeks ago they had met up to watch the new Star Wars, and...yeah... "And, yeah, I heard."

"What will we do?" Russia questioned, peering so intensely at America he had to look away.

America tried to think fast. He focused on the security guard. "We, uh, just need to get the pipe cleared." He thought about showing them the badge he carried around for situations like these. "It's supposed to go with...with...with this." America bounced the bag on his shoulder. A squeaking noise came from inside. He ignored it, plastering on a big, convincing, friendly smile.

"Yeah, what is in that thing, anyway?" pointed one of the security guards. "Looks suspicious to me."

"Huh. Well. It ain't."

Canada checked the time on his phone and shuffled nervously. They should have found the others by now and started working on their backup flight plan. He wondered if he was providing the most help in his current location.

"America?" Russia questioned. "We fight them all now?"

He considered. "No. And this, this is just my carry-on, folks. Now, come on. What's the big idea? It's Christmas season. Hanukkah. Kwanzaa. Whatever you want. This is a time for peace, and...and thanksgiving—not silly disputes over, over, over appliances, and...pipes. Because that's all it is. And we have it checked. We'll get it checked. It'll be fine."

The officers were skeptical. "Alright, listen, kid—"

"I want to fight them," Russia decided. He hadn't liked the way they were talking about him in the first place. Swiftly, he broke his handcuffs in half. The ends of his scarf floated up and slapped two of the officers in the face.

"FINE!" America shrieked. He dropped the trash bag (Canada stepped in to catch it) and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. "Look, here's my clearance!" He shoved the billfold in José's face.

José stared at it for six whole seconds. He sniffed. Crossed his arms. Met America's starry eyes. "For the record, sir, I don't celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa."

"Then season's greetings to you!" America picked up the sack, accidentally picked up Canada, and set him back down. "C'mon, guys. Let's bust this popsicle stand."

"Yay!" cheered Russia, wrenching the pipe out of the hands of one of the security personnel with malice in his grin. "It is truly the most wonderful time!"

"Lock the doors, Liechtenstein!" Hungary ordered, looking in all ways like a pirate captain aboard her stolen ship (the bus), hands on her hips and an adventurous glint in her eyes. Liechtenstein rushed to obey. She scurried over to the front of the bus, overwhelmed by the amount of greasy dials and levers. She had never driven (or stolen) a bus before, especially not a bus this big, so she wasn't sure which button to press.

"The green lever!" Austria said, helpfully. Liechtenstein hurriedly yanked on it, flinching when she heard crunching metal. She staggered as the bus began to move.

"We're rolling!" Austria wailed, unhelpfully. "What did you do?"

"She did what you said!" Switzerland looked ready to hit him. "Man up, you lousy louse!"

Only Hungary was undeterred. She swung herself into the driver's seat and grabbed the wheel, adjusting the mirrors. "Very good, Liechtenstein! Now if it's not too much trouble, could you please make sure that gentlemen doesn't catch up? He is still running after us."

Liechtenstein leaned out the door and sure enough, the jilted driver was stumbling after them and reaching for the open doorway. He held a phone in his right hand and an offensive gesture in his left.

"I'm calling the cops, thieves!" he panted, trying and failing to keep his balance on the icy road. "I paid for that bus myself! What the hell? It's Christmas!"

"Sorry!" Liechtenstein said, actually meaning it as she kicked out at his hands. The man finally collapsed in the snow, defeated.

"Police? Yes? Some crazy foreign woman and her pretentious friends just hijacked my bus. They had a child with them, too. What? No, no! The kid wasn't a hostage, she helped them—!"

That was the last Liechtenstein heard before the bus was tearing away, careening through stoplights. It took a turn too fast and teetered onto its left wheels. Austria screamed.

"Do you even know what you're doing?" he cried, clinging to the poles along the center aisle. "Hungary!"

"Of course not!" she said, beaming. "This is so much fun!"

Liechtenstein reeled, but Switzerland was there to catch her. He frowned, stiff and reactionary, like he was in a warzone. He braced himself against a seat as the bus screamed through an intersection, miraculously avoiding a small parade float. A few balloons snagged on the roof of the bus and smacked against the windows.

"Your hair is messy," said Switzerland sadly.

Surprised, Liechtenstein tugged at her braids, only to find that her hair had come loose. "Oh," she said. "I don't mind."

Switzerland hmmed, unconvinced. "We'll worry about it later."

For then, they held on for dear life.

Also traveling in a general eastward direction at the moment was Britain—except he wasn't headed to JFK. His plane that morning had touched base instead at LaGuardia Airport; this made him feel special compared to a certain muddle of others. It also made him feel lonely, though he was unaware that his personified rear end wasn't the only personified rear end uncomfortable on the hard plastic seats of the F line train. He fancied his ride would be shorter, anyhow—but they would all find out soon, wouldn't they.

He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and stuck in some earbuds to drown out all the worried talk about snow. England had risen from the dead at two o'clock that morning—in his own time zone—and had since come to hard terms with his new zombie life. France had dropped his croissant seeing the British nation enter the conference; England had retorted, "Do I really look so stunning?", France had thrown a white gloved hand over his face as if to protect his own perfectly pressed ensemble from a horrid beast, and that had been the end of that conversation. Now, Fairytale of New York was playing, and England was smirking sadly to himself in a caffeine haze. In his deliriousness, he allowed himself to turn the volume up one level past what was safe for his already old, impaired hearing.

It was due to that action that he missed the arrival of some familiars onto the train as they breezed through a station in Astoria. "I told you this way was cheapest," said Netherlands, holding his siblings' hands as they climbed onto the train, even though there was no step.

"We will have to take a bus to go the rest of the way, though," noted Belgium, still clutching her manicure kit to herself protectively in case a wild Poland would jump out from behind the advertisement poster for the new iPhone to steal it. "Oh, look! Taiwan and Seychelles! Can we sit by you?"

As the girls, sitting on the other side of the car from Britain, looked up at her, Luxembourg looked at his brother. "Don't worry about the bus, Ned. I can pay! I will pay!"

Netherlands' scarf fluttered in the subterranean transit wind. "No; please, allow me. I know how to do the bargaining." He held onto a yellow pole. "Drivers do anything if you slip them three dollars."

Luxembourg nodded slowly. "That sounds fake but okay." He took a seat.

England, meanwhile, was worrying if he would have enough time to work on his Christmas pudding when he got back. If he got back; no matter how playful was he with auditory danger, the nervous ambiance of the subway slipped through his earbuds—clips and phrases like "'uge storm," "biggest blizzard since the last one," and "is that guy passed out or somethin'?" He opened his eyes when the song ended and one of the voices became familiar to him.

"So, like, he didn't break the train after all?" Hong Kong sounded genuinely confused.

"No… I…" China looked unsure, glancing suspiciously throughout the car, which prompted South Korea to do so, as well. "Whatever. He's not here. I just want to get home."

"Don't we all," mumbled Japan, following after his relatives with hunched shoulders. Snow covered all of them, and they looked a bit downtrodden, as if they had just been humiliated on a gameshow. England awkwardly avoided eye contact. With a blast of cold, smelly air, the subway's doors slid shut, and the train began to move again.

Taiwan and Seychelles offered up more empty seats across from them. The whole group began talking, and once again Britain did his best to politely drown them out lest he appear to eavesdrop. He turned to the other side, but then noticed Netherlands and Luxembourg—and Belgium, who stood almost directly across from him! Great. Now England felt bad. He told himself none of this would matter, because he would be home soon for a long break. Oh God—what if he had to share a plane with them? The thought troubled him in many ways. He hunched further into his coat and tried to appear inconspicuous.

So then, of course, his phone began to ring. Loudly.

England jumped, and the device fell out of his hands onto the floor, where it set about violently vibrating like a restaurant pager. He fell to his knees in haste to pick it up. Everyone stared at him at first, and then looked away, trying not to embarrass him, which made him feel even more embarrassed. Frustratedly, he cupped the phone to his ear and swiped to answer it, hissing out a "Hello?"

America's voice blared through the bad signal. "Yo, Britain! That you?"

He made eye contact with Japan, who looked away first. Through gritted teeth: "Yes."

"'Kay, great. Listen. There's a problem."

He huffed and crossed his arms. "There certainly seem to be a lot of problems, America." No sarcasm there.

"Uh...yeah. That's about right. Except this one's urgent. Wherever you are right now—"

England allowed himself a small outburst. "I'm on the bloody Tube! No, I meant subway! Metro, whatever you call it! H-However urgent your problem is, it better not interfere with my plans any more than it already has!"

The other end went silent for a second, in which England had a small heart attack. Then America's voice came back clearer, and, if it wasn't his imagination, even softer. "About your plans...they're cancelled. The planes are cancelled, I mean. It's the weather. All of you guys are stuck here."

"What?" England had a larger heart attack. His pudding! "But, but it's Christ—"

"—mas Eve, I know. But I'm working on it, see?" Britain could only see his own stained reflection in the stained subway windows, and the darkened tunnel beyond. "I think I can persuade my government for a flight," America continued. "Are there any other guys with you?"

Britain looked around and for the first time contemplated the unlikely circumstance of so many nations ending up in the same subway car on the same line. He had yet to find out if it was luck or not. "...Yes."

"Awesome. Can you and them all come to Terminal 1 at JFK? If this plan works, we'll all need to be together." A burst of static.

The English nation ground his teeth some more. He considered complaining that he hadn't been heading that way, but thought better of it. He also wondered if it would be quicker to just wait out the delay at LaGuardia rather than bother with hit-or-miss scheduling, risky takeoff weather, and—shudder—governments. "How good are the chances of this plan working, exactly?"

An empty delay. Hesitation. "...Uh, what was that? I think you're cutting out, man."

"Oh, don't play that game with me, you child!" Britain made eye contact with Seychelles this time. She frowned.

"No, really!" America's voice became substantially more garbled. "I—have—to—go. Just—bring—everyone—to—the—airpor—" The call ended.

Britain huffed and reluctantly slipped his phone back into his pocket, not a moment before all the lights along the train abruptly flickered out.

People began to mutter. China's groan floated above. Startled, England reached out and grabbed onto a metal standing pole (accidentally placing his hand atop Netherlands's at first), but a disastrous crash did not come. The train continued at the same speed as before. Soon, the lights came back on.

A scruffy, apologetic voice began to echo through the speakers, denouncing the mere "technical difficulty," but Britain had stopped listening, filled with a new sense of urgency. Maybe it was better he got to a safer place in this storm. It would still take a while to get to JFK, but if on the off-chance that America's plan did work, he wouldn't want to be the only one left behind in this mess like a fool. Which meant it was time to tell the others.

He realized too late that, also on the off-chance that America's plan did work, he would still be stuck on a plane with a murder of anxious, caffeine-loaded countries.

Merry Christmas, happy Christmas, and happy holidays to everyone!