I do not own Hetalia, the characters, events, anything. Hidekaz Himaruya has copyright over it, and I own nothing I might've stolen. Thanks to all those who inspire me! (And please review, as always)

Chapter Nine: Ponies, Alarms and Lots of Airports

America and England completely forgot about their lunches as soon as the call had ended, and as America ran after the nearest bus, England shoved the packages of fish and chips into the arms of the three civilians he'd been chatting with and then took off in a mad flurry after America. Foolishly enough, as America ran he frantically dialed the number to his boss's office, which was bound to be busy as usual, but if he could get a hold of the secretary, then all would be well. The one problem with England being worried about America was that he didn't know what to be worried about for him- and that things could only be under some sort of a disaster: America never acted this way. He usually coasted among a crisis and didn't really care, he usually let his boss take care of it (which was what they were ultimately supposed to do, and it might've been because England was older and had more experience that he liked to poke his nose in here and there) even though usually he ended up bloody in the end. All countries did get some scratches, however, the last time America had been so frantic about something was during the attack on Pearl Harbor. He'd really lost his control then. England hoped for the sake of the person on the other end- hoped they'd watch out, to be exact.

America ended up hailing a cab instead, and as England dove in almost as he closed the door on his feet, landing just so that he shoved America into the window and sent his phone flying. Well, that was a chance, at least. "What's going on?" England hissed, and gave the driver his address, who was a little old lady that could hardly drive at all.

"Bad stuff, man," America said. He had a horrible habit of keeping 'bad stuff' a secret until it was at it's worse- I.e.: the financial crisis he was having now. England wondered if his stock market (which had always been poorly made in the first place) had crashed a second time- even if he'd made a few fixes it was certainly bound to happen again, England had always figured.

"What kind of bad stuff?" England pressed, and helped America look for his phone on the ground. "Just calm down a minute," he said, and handed him the shiny iPhone, and he took it with shaking hands. "You're not getting anywhere like you are. What's the matter?"

America babbled a scrambled version of the call he'd gotten moments before while the driver weaved dangerously in and out of traffic, chuckling like a madwoman as she did so. England found it especially hard to concentrate on America's words as he was being thrown here and there throughout the car as she drove, but he got the general gist. The question of "who-what-where-why" came through his mind in the usual way- he liked to identify what exactly was going on in these types of situations, it helped him calm down- however, "who" was, obviously, China. "What" was probably the billions of dollars America was going to have to rustle up in payment, "where"…well, being 'places' themselves often left that question embarrassingly unanswered, and 'why'-

That was the biggest question. Why would China randomly want the money America owed him? America was in debt to everyone- even him (which was sometimes brought up between them, but hastily moved on to another topic from America's side). As he scrambled the thoughts tempted to make him a little frantic as well, he hastily whispered this to America: "You might want to keep this a secret for now," he advised carefully, aware that America might have been hesitant to tell England about the call for that very reason. "If other countries find out that China's taken a bold step, you might get other demands for payment as well. Better just pay him and ask him not to talk about it."

"That'd be really nice, Britain," America said. They took a sharp turn and his head slammed into the window and England was almost tossed onto America. He hung on to the little handle above his head. "But I really don't know where I'm going to muster up all this money. I owe parts of my own country lot of money, and I'll have to drop more jobs and close more factories to get money…"

"I'd say start with that billion dollar franchise fast-food restaurant, if I were you," England mumbled, and the car screeched to a halt, followed by an assort of mechanical laughter from the driver. She turned around and grinned toothlessly at them, saying in a dirty, rough voice "Ten pounds, please." England knew America neither had dollars or pounds on him, so he paid the bill as they both jumped out of the car and stomped up to his apartment.

"Okay, that's good advice, but a lot of my food stuff gives people a place to work-" America protested.

"You're going to make people jobless either way, and then you'll have to find other places for them to work- places other countries will want to buy from. Not everybody is interested in a cholesterol-thick offer from grease-dipped chips," England sniffed.

"Fries," America corrected, and he started to call his boss a second time. "And lots of people have liked McDonalds."

"Ever since the obesity problem has gone up, not a lot are liking it much more. That's an idea- I wonder if anyone will pay you to close it."

"That's doubtful." He put the phone to his ear, and it rang, and rang, and rang for about seven times, and then some lady picked up. America introduced himself, immediately gaining the secretary's respect, and requested to speak to the president, who was apparently dealing with something to do with the educational branch, and the lady asked politely if he would call again later. England watched the ordeal as America demanded to speak to his boss a little harshly, but the lady came back with the same timid answer, and then hung up. America swore, and threw the phone down the stairs, where it shattered almost instantly, and he booked it back up the stairs. "I think I'm going to have to meet him in person."

"What? Now?" There was an honest sad tone in England's voice, full of a hint of worry that he tried to drown. He ran after America as he swung open the door to his apartment and went to England's house phone to make another call. England didn't really want to pay for another phone, considering the one America had just destroyed in a blind rage, so he tried to stop him by grabbing the end of his coat. "Listen to you," his voice was slightly harsh. "Take a minute and think. You're in trouble with Russia. Now China hates you. Ask yourself this- what have you done. Honestly. What could you have possibly done to make China angry?"

This was one of the rare times that America didn't have a response. He looked a mixture of sad and solemn as his mouth formed a line and he took a deep breath. He shook his head. "I don't know." He blinked, realizing that the answer he'd just given his older brother was completely true. He took a shaky breath. "I really don't know, Arthur."

The use of his real name made England twitch- he was being serious. There were times that using their human names was disrespectful, but England knew that America had referred to it so that they were speaking as humans- two people trying to make a decision. When they spoke like this, the world did not change the way it did when America and England were acting as countries, but rather, was merely altered as if two humans had made a simple decision. And yet, England didn't know what to do for America- he had wanted him to stay a while so they could amend a few things, maybe America could go home actually satisfied with a visit for once, and he'd been keen on having a good time. The irony that it had been interrupted! England wanted to scream, but he knew there was little he could do for America now, but help him book an emergency flight to Washington D.C. He sighed, and took the phone from America's hands. "I know a few companies that can get you back to your country quickly," he said in a low monotone. "Go sit down and try to relax, alright?"

America dragged himself over to one of the floral couches and collapsed on it, his heart pounding. England made a few calls, a few bribes that he'd never mention again, and then exposed himself a couple times, and after a long chat with some snotty attendant, he hung up the phone and lifted America off his feet again and the two of them ran back down the stairs and into the snowy afternoon. They hailed another cab, and what England would've gave to have the same dangerous woman again, for this person was too slow, but as England forked up another couple pounds he didn't regret it- they ran into the airport together and slammed into the desk, America pounding the surface to get the woman's attention, who slowly handed him his ticket, which he snatched so fast and put in his pocket while turning away, it was like he hadn't been there. England, naturally remembering his older-brother skills, zipped up America's jacket for him, quickly saying; "It'll be cold on the plane. Sleep as much as you can- the flight it almost six hours." He ignored the choking reaction America gave to that. "Don't fuss. You board in twenty minutes- just tell them who you are, and you won't need a passport." With that, he shoved America through the sensors, who stumbled a little, but didn't set off an alarm. As he jogged through the security line, cutting in front of foreigners and ticking a few people off, England shoved his hands nervously into his pockets until America was too far ahead to be seen. Good luck, stay safe, good-bye- all the things he could have said to his rebellious younger brother as he ran into another disaster had all been caught in stupid safety procedures. He always loved his younger brother and he always would, and yet, four hundreds years after he'd found the little boy, he still couldn't let him go.

Meanwhile…

Poland was sitting on his bed, his stomach facing the pink and lavender comforter thrown over it with a magazine under his fingers and a stick of candied strawberry-flavored lollipop stuck in his mouth. The flavor didn't quite satisfy, yet he rolled it around in his mouth as he looked through the various fashions of dresses he thought he might want to try. The flamboyant outlook of his wardrobe didn't bother anyone who really knew him- like Liet- but it definitely got him stares, which, instead of making him embarrassed, he quite enjoyed the attention. Just as he was ready to circle a flouncey pink skirt to go look at in the store later, the phone rang.

Again.

Of course Lithuania was his best friend, like, ever, but he worried over the stupidest things. He really didn't give two craps that Russia was planning to take over the word (again) because he had a secret weapon: blackmail. If Russia knew what was good for him, he'd let him and his ponies be. But Poland also really didn't need to worry about Lithuania in this mess either because, like, Russia obviously liked Lithuania too much. So, yes, Poland wasn't worried at all, even if his nation was right beside the one that threatened. He picked up the pink diamond-studded cell phone and pressed the green answer button, sighing and rolling over so he lay with his head off the bed on his back. "Like, your calls are getting really, like, annoying Liet," he said with a drag in his voice. "Russia can, like, shove his death threats up his ugly white ass. I, like, don't care."

"Lithuania can't come to the phone right now," said a voice that was clearly not Lithuania's. Poland sat up, disgusted. "What did you say about my ass?"

It took him a minute of surprised embarrassment to put back his mask of self-envelopment which always carried the voice of not caring. Well, it was the truth. He actually didn't care he just admitted Russia had an ugly butt to the very person- someone had to tell him eventually, right? He swallowed. "Uh, well, you, like, heard me," he said, checking his nails. They needed paint. He stood up and rummaged through his bedside table's drawer. "Why can't Liet, like, come to the phone? You didn't, like, shove him in that grimy basement with, like, that other guy, right? I mean, like, he needs a better hairdo anyway, and, like, a dirty basement isn't, like, going to help that."

"Hmm…." the voice had a bit of a crackle. Russia didn't have much phone service- Poland guessed that he was using an old house-phone. With a cord. "No, I didn't shove him in the basement with 'that other guy,' whoever you're talking about. He's right beside me. He said he was going to call you because one of your ponies died."

Obviously a lie. Lithuania probably didn't want Russia knowing he'd called him. Poland nonchalantly painted a stroke of light pink across his left thumb and sighed. "Yeah, like, totally," he lied. "Thunder, like, totally kicked it this morning, like, to the max. Why, you, like, want to eat it or something? That's what they, like, do in France, and, like, you have an alliance with France or, like, something." Poland definitely wasn't one to let down a chance to stuff Russia's face in when it came across. And France might've had style, but he was totally a ninny.

"No, I don't want to eat it," Russia said as Poland laughed loudly at his confused voice. Still laughing, Poland flopped back on the bed and cackled as much as he pleased.

"Like, listen, Russia," Poland said, holding his stomach. "I, like, really don't want to talk to you, so, like, if you don't have anything, like, important to say, I'm going to, like, hang up in the middle of your next sentence."

"You 'like' listen comrade," the words came out of Russia's mouth thousands of miles away and still slithered like a snake out of the receiver in such a way Poland spilled the nail polish all over his flowered rug under the bed. "I've got a plan coming around, so I want you to do something for me or I will lock Lithuania in the basement for a week if you don't."

"Uh…." Poland swallowed again, getting up to mop the paint as best he could from the rug. "Like, Lithuania isn't scared of the dark, so, like, it's not like he's going to wet himself in there. Like, I won't, like, ever do anything for you."

"Lithuania says you like horses. What if you could get a horse out of it?"

Well, that wasn't weird at all. Poland had to laugh at that. "Like, I don't want your ugly ponies. I'm hanging up."

"America owes you money as well, doesn't he?"

If anything caught him off guard the most in the entire conversation, it was that. Poland kept his thumb on the red 'end' button still, but he didn't press it. "Duh, he, like, owes everyone, like, a billion dollars." Carefully, secretly, he reached over into his drawer again and pulled out the last billing notice he shoved everywhere. Aside from the other countries that owed him just a little money, America's was highlighted by his boss to try and get his attention. Not that Poland would ever ask America for it- he was an ass, and avoiding conversation with him was the best way to go. "Yeah, he does, like, why?" He sneered, crumpling up the paper and tossing it in an overflowing purple trash bin.

"I'm about to make him go bankrupt," Russia said, unnaturally cheerful for the subject. "I was wondering if you'd like to help me."

"What, like, make America go, like, bankrupt?" Poland said questionably. He played with his hair. "Like, I wouldn't, like, want to help you with, like, anything." He leaned back against his bed and switched his tone. "But, like, my boss really wants the money he, like, owes us, so, like, if you, like, have an idea on how I could, like, get it, that'd be, like, awesome. Like, to the max."

"I'd like you to leave him a call," Russia said. "With a week-long deadline for him to pay you."

"Hmm…" Poland was distracted by taking a tissue and painting his nails from the puddle on the ground. "Like, I could probably do that. But, like, I'm not doing it for you. My ponies are, like, really high-maintenance, and I, like, need money."

"Of course."

"So, like, I'll call up America and you won't, like, shove Lithuania in, like, a closet, right?" Poland said timidly.

"Maybe. We're in China right now. I do not think there are many closets for him to be shoved in right now, but I might put him in the back of our car…"

"Like, if I get a call from Liet, like, saying he was, like, put in some trunk, I'll, like, be totally ticked off and, like, won't help you," Poland snapped. "So, like, do what you want, but, like, keep that in mind."

"Sure," Russia said simply.

"Yeah, like, whatever," Poland said, disgusted, and pressed the end button. He sat on the bed cross-legged for a moment, wondering what Russia would do to Liet if he didn't drop America a call, but, then again, his boss also wanted the money from him. Not immensely, but it wasn't like Poland wanted to tick off his boss. He let out a sigh, dragged himself across the room and picked the crumpled piece of paper he'd thrown out of the trash can and unfolded it, then dialed the number and let it ring, crouching on the floor. It went to the voicemail, which was good enough, Poland sure didn't want to talk to him direction. America had an office in the Whitehouse where Poland was sure he just sat around doing nothing, so he called that phone and, not surprisingly, had to leave a message.

But far, far away from Poland in a car speeding with the fast traffic in China, Russia clapped his phone shut while a nervous Lithuania sat next to him and then he decided it was Canada's turn.

Meanwhile…

Prussia sat alone in the dark of the basement. There was lots of things he could do to pass the time in there, he'd told himself countless times, like count the number of bricks (again) that made up the basement (a little over two-thousand) or draw on the walls with a rock (he was running out of space) or fiddle around with the sadistic number of guns laying around on the shelves in there. It was a good way to know that times were expanding, though he still didn't know what year it was. He tapped his foot to the beat of a song he'd made up (the only lyric was 'I'm awesome') and played around with the broken bits of bricks laying around in there. In the time he'd spent, forgotten, in Russia's stupid basement he'd learned to juggle in the dark, (he could do it with his eyes closed) count to three-trillion (patiently) and how to somehow be awesome just by existing (which he'd already mastered before that, now he just perfected it). He enjoyed listening to the conversations above, especially Latvia, who didn't give a care what came out of his mouth before he said it, but after, usually he came to regret. Estonia was comical in his own manner, somehow keeping his cool together no matter what Russia said, but Lithuania…

Lithuania was a little pathetic.

However, a forth person had entered the Russia Federation about two days ago. It was Canada, which he'd heard through the door of the basement that was long since locked from the outside. Yet, never had he ever wanted to laugh and hug a stranger that he had almost no connection with, but one thing was simple in his mind: Canada was his one-way ticket out of there. But how to get him alone? The door to the basement was facing the kitchen, and people who went in there came in groups, unless to use the phone that hung there. Canada had to make a phone call sometime, right? He had to have some worried girlfriend over there, right? Oh well. He'd just wait. And as the impatience grew, finally he heard the light footsteps that he made himself memorize in the short time he'd heard them, then he scrambled up the stairs and pressed his ear to the door to make sure he was alone. Once he was positive, he leaned in and said as loud as he dared; "Hey. You. Canada."

On the other side of the wall, Canada practically jumped out of his skin. He held the light green phone in his hand with an order he dreaded from Russia that told him to call his brother and demand the money he owed him. It was a threat, rather, that he, no matter how much he didn't want to, couldn't avoid. Previously he ignored America's debt to him because they were brothers- family did stuff like that all the time, right? But now…

Well, now there was a voice coming from the kitchen basement door. He wondered how long it took a person to go clinically insane, and living there, he wouldn't have been surprised. He set the phone back in the receiver and carefully took a step toward the door. "H-hello?" His voice shook with uncertainty, for he didn't know if he'd imagined it or not, and he didn't want Estonia or Latvia hear him if he had. Russia wasn't there after he'd grabbed Lithuania and hauled him off somewhere- but having him not in the house was a big relief.

"Yeah. Hi," said the door. Or, rather, the person behind it. Canada was glad he hadn't imagined it, or maybe he still was, but it wasn't that big of a shock that Russia was holding someone hostage in the basement either. "Listen, it'd be really nice if you could open the door and let me out. I've been in here really long, and some fresh air would be really good for me, you know what I'm saying?"

"Oh," Canada wasn't about to let down an offer to help someone out. "Sure." However, when he looked at the knob, it had some hefty device covering it. When Canada tried to lift it off, the thing gave a loud shredding noise he could only guess was an alarm. He jumped back, letting it down again, and hearing the person on the other side of the door heave a sigh.

"Yeah, that's a problem," said the person from inside. "But Estonia and Latvia are out on a walk, Belarus is nowhere to be seen and Russia and Lithuania are gone. No one's going to hear it. It'll probably come off if you pull it enough."

"I don't know…" Canada said indecisively, stepping up to the door again. He sure didn't want to get in trouble with Russia, that was obvious, and he didn't know who was behind it.

"Listen, I've been in here a really long time and I'm pretty sure I smell, and it's getting kind of unbearable. If you could just take the thing off, I'd be really appreciative and stuff because that arsloch has been keeping me in here against my will." There was a knock on the other side to make sure he was paying attention. "Seriously," he added.

Canada nervously picked up the lever again, and the alarm screamed as he pulled and pulled, the wood cracking, the alarm threatening to break his eardrums, the door groaning and then-

SMASH the alarm broke free and Canada went flying backward, pieces of the door coming with him, and then door swing open just a little before it blew open with full force, and a figure dashed out of the kitchen before Canada could even get a good look at him, though he did hear the door open and a shout of "I'M FREE, BITCHES!" as the person dashed into the snow, and Canada lay on the ground with the broken alarm on his stomach, appalled.

On the plain, running with pent-up energy that lasted several decades, Prussia was practically flying back down the path he remembered from so long ago, one thought on his mind: escape. Get to the airport, and all was well. He couldn't speak a word of Russian, but, ah, who cared? He'd deal with it later. If he had to walk back to Germany, hell, he would. The snow was deep and he stumbled many times, yet he opened his arms and shouted with laughter over and over, and when he stumbled into Moscow he leapt in front of someone who looked like they'd been waiting there for a long time, but he didn't care. "Get me to the airport. Speedy-like." The driver mumbled something in Russian, and off they went. When he pulled into a huge glass-domed airport, Prussia jumped out before he could hand the poor driver some money, and sprinted into the building. The driver didn't run after him, just made loud fussing noises and let him go. He slammed into a couple of people on the way to the desk, but when he got up to a little old lady, he rummaged through his pockets and slapped something on the counter. The old lady looked at it.

A long time ago, they never use them now, nations had special passports that would let them onto any transportation device without pay. Why should they have to- they made up the world themselves. However, they don't use them now, which was why America had so much trouble getting back to his own country, but now they use a special visa, which wasn't much different to the card Prussia had stamped on the desk. People behind him tittered, annoyed, while the old lady examined the card. She and her other workers had been taught how to identify them, and luckily enough, Prussia's card wasn't much different than the others, so she quickly printed out a ticket for him that went one-way to Berlin, and then Prussia leapt back over the line and was able to pass through security safely. Moments later he sat in a near-empty terminal, waiting for a flight that was three hours away. He didn't know what had happened since he was locked in that basement, he didn't know if he'd been forgotten, heck, he didn't even know what year it was, and yet, when the time came to board the plane he almost kissed the flight attendant who spoke perfect German and sat next to a snotty little kid and wished him a good morning.

Wow, Poland. Honestly, his character makes me want to laugh- then I'm reminded that my blood is mostly French and Polish…um.

But, yes, the end of chapter nine, and things continue to heat up. Please, drop me a review just so I know you're reading it, and thank you! See you next chapter, hopefully!