Yo, Hikou no Kokoro back. God, this chapter took a hell of a lot longer than I had intended. At first, the chapter was going to be just "Reason 2," but then it reached 9k words, and that's way over my "word count limit" for the average Reason chapter, so I split it up into three parts. Well, now you guys waited for more than two weeks for a short-ish Reason chapter; sorry, but thank you for the wait. But at least now I have two new chapters on the archive. So yay! Thank you for sticking with me for so long! Luv ya!

Thank you very much for my wonderful reviewers: ForestFireSong, crazeENness, firelight3, and Fei!

And thank you for the two new subscribers: StarSlingerSnitch and The Countess in Red!

You all are the reason why I continue writing! Thank you very much!

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers: Hetalia. It rightfully belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. I merely own the AU plot.

To Create Perfection

"It ain't what they call you, it's what you answer to."
—W.C. Fields

"Reason 2: Missing Miracles, Part 1"

Let me tell you a story.

Francis was a boy born in the World Domain. Day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, he was surrounded by success. His neighbours were researchers and engineers and inventors. His mother and father were executives and doctors. His teachers were retired lab workers, reaching out to continue knowledge in the next generation. His peers were brilliant students who, in the long run, always won. They were all diligent workers, completing tasks with stern discipline. Likewise, Francis was expected to be the same. Of course, nobody was perfect, so flaws were options, but he was to strive for perfection, just like everybody else. He was supposedly destined for greatness, as the rest of his peers. Those who weren't, or didn't put in the effort, or didn't demonstrate the potential, were to be weeded out, either exiled to live in another nation or sent into the low-class workers or soldiers. Unfortunately, Francis sometimes believed he was going to fall into the latter category, unable to taste the success and perfection most of his peers would.

Now, that wasn't saying that he wasn't a hard worker. He was, just like how his parents expected to be. In a technical sense, he was on the same calibre as his peers: he could get the exact same grades, complete tasks with great precision and accuracy, understand all the new and complicated concepts, and work as well—or better—as the prodigies of the World Domain. Unfortunately, Francis couldn't seem to demonstrate his ability and potential.

He didn't find meaning. Everything he did—it didn't have a purpose, a real goal. He didn't want to just feel a completed product; he wanted to have it. The work he did was more or less of a machine's, a factory's. His hands felt mechanical, obeying instructions so he could just spit things out for others. There was no satisfaction in that. As a result, his discipline plummeted. Nothing seemed to be done correctly. His focus went everywhere else, and at one point, he began to believe that he had gender identity disorder and wished he were a girl. In a way, he did have the disorder, and with it, he had hit an all-time low by the end of primary school, and stayed that way for a good number of years.

Then, he met Jeanne Orleans.

The first time he had seen her, she was just a new neighbour, living all the way on the other side of the city on a nice flat with her mother and father. Francis' had only a glimpse of the girl when he was walking down the street and noticed people carrying boxes from a moving truck. Jeanne and her family were unpacking things, recently having moved from France. Both her mother and father were similar to Francis' in that they were prestigious doctors, although the Orleans also worked as professors in universities. The Orleans were offered jobs in one of BCWD's branches, and they had taken the opportunities immediately.

The second time he met Jeanne was when he was going to school. Francis' had been walking down the paved path to the front of the school, carrying his little red backpack on his shoulders and looking at three birds twittering on tree branches. Then, someone knocked him over. The girl was covered in dirt—her hair, her hands, her clothes—and she looked down at Francis. Her blue eyes blinked curiously, as if she was surprised that the boy was sprawled on the ground. Then she grabbed Francis by his hips and set him back on his feet, speeding off afterwards. Not a word was spoken; everything happened so quickly that Francis was left staring at the disappearing back of the mysterious young girl. Only when blood was dripping from his skinned arm and forehead did he realise that he had gotten hurt and began to cry. He landed in the nurse's office afterward, getting uncomfortable bandages and a little lollipop and wondering who had knocked him over.

He didn't see Jeanne much during the time directly after then. She was in the same class as he, despite being two years younger than the average, but Francis rarely got to talk to her. Jeanne had hit instant popularity. She was beautiful, energetic, unnaturally empathetic and selfless. And her heavy French accent was the most attractive thing the children had heard. Every day, friends and acquaintances would swarm around her and she would lead them all through an imaginary medieval adventure. Her very presence seemed to radiate joy and innocence, luring herself into people's hearts.

Francis didn't understand all the hype around Jeanne, unfortunately. Yes, she was pretty and her French alone would have pulled him over, but she was loud, boorish and self-righteous. She shouted too often, stood her ground too well, and although would listen to people's problems, never listened to other people's suggestions. She would unwittingly interrupt his thinking process as he worked on his homework and struggled desperately to get the recognition that his peers would so easily achieve. Besides, Francis rarely got a chance to truly talk to her, for she was always at the attention of more outgoing individuals. A few times she had approached him to ask how he was doing. He replied nothing every time. The smile that stretched over her crooked teeth appeared almost disturbing, and Francis oftentimes shrunk away, waiting for Jeanne's other friends to take her attention away from him.

Only when Jeanne approached him with a scowl on her face did Francis realise the girl's true charm.

It was on a regular day near the beginning of his first year in secondary school. Francis was uncomfortable with the transition, but he had a new brand of confidence. On the summer after his sixth year of education, he had convinced his parents to buy him "feminine" possessions. They bought him jewellery, flowery clothing, perfume and children-safe make-up, humouring his supposed phase. After two weeks of school, Francis decided to strut around with the feminine products. He could be treated like a girl and he could fit in with his female friends, discussing things such as aesthetics and pretty boys without people thinking that he was a strange boy. So in the morning, he woke up early to do his hair and make-up. Of course, he only did basic things so he could look pretty—if he ended up being gorgeous, then people would be jealous and he didn't want that. He brushed his hair, letting it fall down in waves rather than keeping it up in a ponytail. He applied some foundation to hide his unfortunate acne, some blush, and even mascara and lipstick, which in reality was just cherry Chap Stick that stained his lips red. When he realised that he had extra time, he took a few of his mother's nail polish and painted his fingernails with a rainbow of glittery colours. If he could have, he would wear a pink skirt, but since he had physical education he decided that he would hold practicality first and wear pants. When he walked out of the house, the day felt like a dream come true. He finally was happy.

The dream ended at school.

A pair of boys stopped him near the entrance. "What are you wearing?" they sneered.

"Make-up," Francis replied.

"Cosmetics?" one of the boys leered, snickering when Francis took a few steps back. "Why?"

"Because it makes me look pretty."

"What are you? Do you think you're a girl?"

Francis shrunk back, clutching on his backpack straps. "Yeah…"

The two boys looked at each other. Then they burst out laughing, keeling over and slapping their knees. "Do you hear that, Al?" "Hell yeah, Billy." "That's hilarious! He thinks he has a vagina and boobs!" "I know! How stupid can he be?"

Tears welled in Francis' eyes. "Stop laughing! This isn't funny!" He pouted, stomping his foot on the ground. "I'm serious!"

"Oh, look at him, Al. He's serious," Billy taunted, waving his hands and rolling his eyes. A hand whipped forward and grabbed a fistful of Franc's clothing. "So he's serious about breaking laws of science! That's unnatural! You can't be a girl because nature made you a boy! You can't change that just 'cause you want to!"

"No!" Francis kicked his legs, waving his arms in attempts to defend himself.

"Billy, maybe he has gender identity disorder."

"Oh, so a disorder?" Billy lifted Francis up, scrutinising with his narrowing, green eyes and frowning. "Hear that, Francis? You have a disorder. And do you know what a disorder is?" The frown contorted into a grin. "A mistake. Something is wrong with you."

Francis sniffled. His light mascara was running. With shaking fingers, he desperately tried to clean that up before streaks ran down his face. He had stopped kicking, too humiliated to do anything for himself.

"Hey, aren't his parents renowned scientists or something?" This time it was Al who said it, leaning closer towards Francis with his hands on his hips. "I'll bet they let him wear all this crap because they wanted to experiment on him or something. See if they can fix anything or make a case study."

The two boys cackled. "Then I'll help you out, Francis!"

Billy's grubby hands moved from Francis' shirt to his blond hair, pulling. Francis cried out and clutched onto his head. The blond boy was kicking his legs again for his feet were off the ground. Tears and snot ran down his face, taking his foundation with them. The other boys' hands were smearing everything off. The colours of his red lip balm went on his cheeks and even his shoulders. All the effort he used to make himself look just right was becoming a waste; he knew that running cosmetics would only make him look ugly, like a morbid ghost with black blood and flaking skin running down from his forehead. In all his despair, Francis only cried and wailed.

A fist flew in front of his face. The bony hand cracked against Al's face and he fell to the ground. All other movements stopped: Billy's hand remained raised; Francis stood still, his blue eyes widening at the sight. Al, on the other hand, was curling up and whining, his hands covering the swelling and bruising appearing on his right cheekbone. The shadow standing over the boy was merciless, however. The foetal position wasn't enough. The attacker's foot stomped his hip.

"How dare you do something like this?" Jeanne shrieked. "I'll beat you 'til you can't reach reproductive maturity!"

Billy let go of Francis, who stumbled back and landed on his butt. "He needs that!" Billy shouted, tackling Jeanne.

Jeanne screeched and Billy screamed. Fists raised and crashed against shoulders, stomachs and heads; legs kicked out, feet colliding against limbs with sickening "thumps." The brawl quickly turned feral as the two rolled around on the ground, biting shoulders and pulling hair until strands fell out or blood dripped from the scalps. Beside them Al remained curled up, clutching the area between his legs and tears welling up in the corners of his squinting eyes. He didn't make a move to help his friend, and Billy didn't seem to pay attention either. The boy had snatched up a rock. The sedimentary was dropped. Jeanne screamed and blood poured from her face.

Francis couldn't handle the sights anymore. More tears streaked down his cheeks and he simply ran, streaking through the school corridors away from the fray. He didn't see what happened afterward, and didn't calm down until he stood sniffling in front of the bathroom doors. His appearance was already messed up, so dejectedly he entered the facility and washed everything off his face. At least his nail polish was left unscathed.

He didn't see Jeanne until the end of the school day. Presumably, Jeanne, Billy and Al had landed themselves in the principal's or nurse's office. Teachers must have seen the fight and immediately separated them. The damage was quite hefty on both parties. Al had gotten the least amount of damage, but he walked around with a strange limp for a few hours. Jeanne had hit the scrotum hard, traumatising the boy into freaking out whenever girls got too close for the next three days. Fortunately, he had gotten off easy; the principal more or less disregarded him and Francis got to see the boy in his class half an hour after the late bell rang. Francis didn't know what happened to Billy though. The boy must have sustained enough injuries to be sent home, or he had been suspended upon exiting the principal's office, since he had returned to school within a week and a half complaining how he was almost expelled because everybody was an idiot. Jeanne, though, was the median of the two extremes. She wasn't suspended, but she couldn't attend any of the classes for the day. Instead, the aggressive girl landed herself in the nurse's office, getting patched up and rested up before she was picked up by her parents afterschool.

Francis bumped into her while trudging through the corridors, his little backpack slung over his shoulders and his eyes aiming at his shuffling feet. The school bus wasn't to arrive until fifteen minutes later, so he had time to kill. Jeanne was going in the opposite direction towards the front entrance where her parents were picking her up. When Francis saw her, though, he was absolutely horrified. She had a new set of clothes on and held a blue icepack on her head, and bandages and colourful Band-Aids covered numerous cuts located over her cheeks, forehead, hands and shin. A piece of padded gauze covered her nose, held in place with two superhero Band-Aids. A large, purple bruise was located just above her left eye, swelling the eye shut. She had lost three teeth from the brawl: two primary teeth and a permanent premolar on the top right. The holes in her mouth had long since stopped bleeding, but her cheeks were puffed up nevertheless. Despite everything, she gave Francis the toothiest grins he had ever seen. In a way, she looked like a runaway convict, but at least she was a happy runaway convict.

"Hi, Francis, glad to see you're doing well," Jeanne greeted, holding up a hand in a wave. A small hiss came with each articulation, and her swelling cheeks only seemed to make her French accent even worse.

Francis shrank back slightly with the movement. "Uh… yeah, you too," he replied.

"Of course I'm doing well!" Jeanne laughed. Her little hands made little fists and she held them out towards Francis. "I beat them stupid boys and won like a landslide! Point one for me!"

"Uh, yeah…" Francis simpered, and patted Jeanne's fists. Then he looked back at the ground and started going around Jeanne. If he stayed, then he would miss the bus, and he didn't want to wait for three hours for his parents to pick him up afterwards.

But Jeanne stopped him. She grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and he let out a horrified squeak. Then she put her icepack on his head. "For your head boo-boo."

Finally, she let go and skipped away, leaving Francis staring, stunned with an icepack on his head.

After that, he burst into tears and missed the bus.