Okay, those who have already earned a story from me are : A Natsume Yuujinchou Lover, FallingDown98, SailorZeldaTheLightAlchemist, TheNextAlice, Pasta Loving Masochist, and TruDivination. There are still slots left for this, however 3
But I love all of you who have reviewed !
...
Today was the day. The day Germany finally snuffed out that evasive bastard England, who'd scored a perfect score in training. Who'd slipped out of Germany's grasp at the Cornucopia bloodbath, and of course, who had killed Italy. Well, for one thing or another, it was high time England died. Germany and Japan bounded down the grassy slope to the beach, the salty air whipping around their faces. After about twenty feet, they could see three figures on the sandy beach. One was Hungary, grasping an ax and skillet, one was England...perfect. And the third was England's pathetic little brother Sealand, the small boy was still and covered in blood. The Brit was sobbing over his cold, dead body. How ridiculous.
Anxiety, pleasure, and fear rose in Germany's chest. "Japan," he whispered, "Go after that girl Hungary. I feel that you will be a match for her. I'll go after that bastard England...and get him once and for all," Japan nodded in agreement, and raised his deadly katana. One good slice and Hungary would be dead. The two other nations on the beach were focused on Sealand, with Hungary enjoying the yaoi in the form of England's sobs over his dead brother. Heart pounding, Germany ducked behind a sand dune, his sword grasped firmly in his hand. A low buzzing sound came from behind him, indicating the arrival of a hovercraft. The black structure came closer, and England tenderly touched his little brother for the last time. Then the rope lowered, and the little boy's body was lifted away, never to be seen again.
It was now or never. Germany sprinted out from behind the dune, sprinting toward England with all his strength. The Brit's back was turned to him, watching the hovercraft vanish into the distance. Really, it was a good things Sealand's death came when it did. Hungary and England hadn't even noticed the arrival of Germany and Japan. This might not be so hard after all. Letting our a roar, Germany slashed the iron blade through the air, bringing it down with all his might onto the British bastard's back, tearing through his shirt and drawing up a thin, jagged line of blood. England let out a bellow of pain and shock, whirling around to face Germany, his spear in hand.
"No pathetic little brother this time to warn you, eh?" The German man growled. "Too bad he's dead and white, tucked away in a hovercraft." If Germany had to feel a loss at Italy's death, then England deserved to feel absoloutly broken over Sealand's.
"Shut your dirty mouth," England hissed back, jabbing his iron tipped spear forward. Thinking quick, Germany deflected it with the flat end of his sword. The Brit struck again, and Germany side stepped, slashing England's stomach and tearing his clothes once more, making more blood appear. "Bastard!"
Calling Germany by the title usually reserved for him, England brought his spear forward, this time aiming for Germany's head. The after mentioned nation turned his cranium slightly, but not enough to receive a sharp, painful blow to the right part of his forehead, feeling warm, sticky blood trickle down his cheek. Narrowing his eyes, he poked his sharp sword at Britain, causing the nation to wack his sword aside with his spear shaft. Germany pulled back, then slashed forward, not giving England a moment to rest. His rival grunted, stepping back and slamming his spear shaft into Germany's rib cage. He grunted, then slashed yet again, for England's spear to collide with the blow, sending both nations staggering backward across the sand. By now, England was in the water, the blue waves lapping playfully at his feet.
The Germany sprinted forth, his heart exploding so loud he was sure the people watching the Games on television could hear it, and his entire body dripping with rivers of sweat. At the same time, Britain's face was beet red, his green eyes sticking out against the ghastly color. Raising his arm, Germany poked his sharp sword at England's stomach, determined to run it through. But the Brit turned and ran. His sword ripped through his shirt, shredding the back of it to bits and revealing more of England's bloody skin below. Water splashed upward, gleaming weekly in the evening sun. Out of the corner of his eye, Germany spotted Hungary and Japan brawling it out, metal instruments waving and flashing in the air. But his focus remained on England.
The Brit spun about, his eyes narrowed heatedly at Germany, who charged at him, his sword slicing in the air. He aimed for England's neck, determined to cut off that blond head. Again, Britain blocked the German's strike with his spear, then pushed forward, as Germany did the same. Both nations were charged with adrenaline, but a lust for revenge pumped through Germany's veins just as powerfully, wanting more than anything to even the score and chop this wank to pieces one for all.
England struck again. This time Germany was too slow. The cold grate of iron sliced through his ribs, more hot and sticky blood pumping outward and staining his shirt red in a matter of seconds.
"You...fiend!" Germany yelled angrily waving his sword about in a wide arc. With ease, it knocked away Britain's spear and sliced through the man's upper chest in a speedy arc, making for a nice counter strike.
"Wanker!" England screamed back, gritting his teeth in pain at the long cut that had appeared above his heart. The two nations struck again.
...
Katana and skillet collided as the loud clang of steel on steel rang across the beach. Hungary's skillet vibrated in her hand as the Asian man pulled back. Him and his ally, Germany, has seemingly appeared out of no where, coming down from their hideout at the Cornucopia. Well, it was the final seven by now. They were probably just doing some much needed hunting. That didn't mean they'd end up on top, however. No, Hungary could put up quite a fight.
As Japan acted again, Hungary blocked his assault with her pan, then brought her iron ax forth, nearly lodging it into Japan's ribs before he sensed the attack and jumped back, narrowing his eyes at the skillet waving women. Moving gaily, Japan side stepped so that he was located on Hungary's right side, then smashed his sword inward once more, tearing away part of her shirt and drawing a jagged line of scarlet blood. She spun around to face him, bringing forth her skillet to block another hefty sword strike. But Hungary couldn't help but cry out in pain as the after effect of the sword cut seared through her side. Still, she had the upper side.
"Don't give up now, you," She muttered to herself, bending down low to avoid another blow. "You've got two good weapons, you have to get home!" Home. It clanked through her mind as her iron skillet finally found a mark, banging into Japan's nose and squashing it inward like one of Spain's tomatoes and his annual tomato fight holiday. A slight cracking noise sounded through her ears, and Japan scowled at his enemy, now bringing out his knife, the shorter steel blade reflecting flecks of sunlight along with the larger one. He waved the flat end of his sword forward, as Hungary struck back down with her ax, then began to bash her skillet down against the Asian, for it to be brought to a standstill by the short blade of Japan's knife. Not a moment too late.
The short blade went straight into the loophole at the bottom of the skillet's wooden handle, sticking itself in there, halting both weapons firm in place. Hungary's right arm and Japan's left arm both tried to pull the respective weapons back, but to no avail. They were stuck in place. Realizing what this meant at the same time, the nations attacked with their other weapons using all their strength.
...
In the Hetalian Village
Switzerland had just been sentenced to death. After he'd stayed in the Russia household, which had become hauntingly still after the deaths of four inhabitants, Switzerland had left and gone home, a mix of emotions tumbling through him. Sadness, depression, and rage at his little sister's torture, but satisfaction and justice at the four deaths that had happened at his hands. It didn't take long for the peacekeepers to find him. They banged rather rudely at his door, arresting Switzerland afterword. He hadn't been too scared. Whatever occurred now, he no longer had to deal with the burdens of the world. Liechtenstein's death. The murders he'd committed.
But anyway, it took the court all of eleven hours to charge him guilty in a pathetic excuse for a trial, and here he was, in the village square, his hands tied together by an itchy piece of rope, two burly peace keepers in white uniforms leading him up a short flight of stairs to a wide wooden platform, like the stage that had appeared here on the reaping. Where Liechtenstein had been chosen to go to her death.
And where Switzerland would meet his. Below him, dozens of Hetalian faces looked up anxiously. He spotted Romano and Spain, Vietnam, FemAmerica with FemEngland and FemFrance. They'd been required to come here and watch Switzerland die. Hardly mattered, as everyone here had been watching their fellow nation perish on television for the past two weeks or so.
A guard taking both his elbows, Switzerland was paraded across the platform, his booted feet clonking ominously against the wood. One of the two peacekeepers, a women, said a few words of how they were taking care of dangerous criminals and ridding the world of evil, then she tied another itchy piece of rope around his neck, as the nation glared forward in dis contempt all the while, his green eyes already dead. It didn't matter that within moments...he would be dead. Time slowed down.
The female peacekeepers tied Switzerland's legs together, then stood him directly above a trapdoor, while his heart began pounding in nerves and fear. Still, his poor little sister had been forced to endure a lot worse. As the evening sun shone on his pale neck, the trapdoor opened.
And Switzerland was cascading. Cascading toward the stone ground in an exactly straight line, his body rigid. Then he stopped falling. For a split second, everything seemed normal. Birds flitted across the sky, and a soft breeze rustled his body. Then the pressure started. It stabbed into his neck, stopping all breathing. The itch on his neck was overwhelming. He wanted nothing more than to reach up and scratch it, but his hands were bound tightly together by another piece of rope, preventing any movement. Switzerland began to flail. Blood welled up in his face, and he was gagging in silence, as red hot flashes of pain ripped through his neck. His eyes lolled upward. Liechtenstein's face appeared above him, smiling and telling him it would be okay, it would be okay. The hair ribbon he'd bought for her stuck out, a reminder of their sibling hood. Which would last even beyond death.
Switzerland's lungs were blazing. It felt as if two plastic bags had been wrapped around them, stopping the flow of oxygen. Above the nation, the peacekeepers watched, waiting for the tell tale signs of death. He began to kick more wildly, but now with desperation. Flashes of black and red obscured his vision, and the entire world began to spin and blur. Fading, fading forever more until the only thing left was Liechtenstein.
His neck cracked, and his emerald eyes moved no more, nor did Switzerland's body.