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Characters/Pairings: 32 - France, no pairings. 17 - Prussia, no pairings.

Genre: 32 - General-ish. 17 - Horror.

Rating: 32 - T. 17 - M.

Warnings: 32 - France, drug/alcohol abuse, sort-of-mentions of prostitutes (if you look sideways), the Moulin Rouge, possibly bad French.
17 - Disturbing qualities equal to (if not surpassing) number 47 of this challenge. Prussia being a huge jackass, mistreatment/animalization of humans, war, blood. Did I mention the dark, twisty, sheer disturbingness of it?

If any of this offends you, please skip them.

DISCLAIMER: Do I seriously need to put one of these anymore?

XXXII: Night

Night time, mothers claim, is when all the nasty things come out to do their business – witches, warlocks, thieves and the like have no use for daylight, after all.

Francis, however, knows better – the night is for the revolution, for l'amour. It is filled with magic of a different sort – a little green fairy, Poppies, beautiful women, and a little red windmill.

Viva la Revolution! His people cry. Viva la France! Liberté,verité,beauté, et l'amour!

Francis grins at one of the girls on the street, beckoning her towards him with a single gloved finger.

Viva la France, indeed.

XVII: Blood

His sword slashed across the human's chest, cutting through its uniform and into its stomach. It gave out a scream, dropping its weapon, clutching its wound as it fell to the ground with an agonised cry. He stepped over the pathetic thing, looking over the enemy casually as a wide, cocky smirk spread over his face.

Fools, all of them. Incapable of keeping themselves alive while fighting other humans. It was all pathetic - their weak struggles, their attempts at war… everything about them, really. Only Nations knew how to fight properly, how to really start wars – and he was the best at it. He turned war into an art form; the gunshots and anguished screams of the dying were his symphonies, the battlefields his canvases. His sword was his paintbrush; the blood of the humans and animals mixed together for his paint.

A group of the enemy's soldiers stormed towards him, weapons glinting in the sunlight. He roared a battle-cry and charged towards them, his boots pounding into the ground and his sword flashing in a silver blur as he gained ground and got closer to them.

He needed more paint.

Translations for 32:

Viva la Revolution/France: Long Live the Revolution/France
Liberté,verité,beauté, et l'amour: Freedom, truth, beauty, and love
(yes, Moulin Rouge is a very bad influence on me. Now shush.)

Review, please!