Left: Hey guys! I know, it's about time I got around to posting something with all my partner has been up to - nearly five stories! Jeez. I couldn't let her take all the fun though, and we are working on a few of our joint projects even as we speak~ This is just my own side story to mess with in between down-times. It's an AU (which Right and I seem to excel at, it seems), and - very similarly like her Trigger, is based off a movie (which was a book first). And, like her's, it's so loosely based on said movie that you probably could read them without knowing the inspiration behind them and not pick up on it. My all-time favorite movie that I worked off of is True Grit. The original John Wayne and the newer Jeff Bridges adaptation, seeing as they're both so alike, you get deja vu whiplash. HOWEVER there is not based in the good ol' cowboys time and age. No, instead, I went more of a steampunk route, because I'm a sucker for bloody air-ships.

So! Here goes my first Hetalia fic!

Characters (in this chapter): Human Names - America, Canada, Cuba, England, historically incorrect OC!character names
Rating: T
Warnings: Swearing, Violence, Death
Disclaimer: Hetalia: Axis Powers © Himaruya Hidekaz, this is a fan created story.

The sky, the wind, the world rushing below him – it was everything Alfred F. Jones lived for.

And boy did he live.

The small twitchy aeroplane beneath him was the only thing that kept him aloft in the twisting winds the ocean created. They crashed into the contraption's side and the joints would moan in protest before Alfred would jerk at the controls and the plane would right itself through the thermals. It was testy and it took a lifetime to master every twist and turn without thinking it through, but Alfred – Airman Alfred Jones, as he was more formally known – had the small plane turning at his every command.

He was a natural.

And his superiors hated to admit it.

"Airman Jones," crackled a nearly indistinguishable voice from the headset. "You're grounded – c'mon down. Let some other Breezie have a go, will ya?"

Alfred recognized his Second in Command's voice. He rolled his eyes before snapping a switch by the strap around his jaw. He waited a minute for the static to pass before saying, "Not so, sir. I still have at least ten more minutes." It was more like five, but who was counting?

His Second in Command, apparently. "Sorry, kid. Captain's orders. Park it in Hangar Eight, okay? S'last one empty."

Now that was different. Alfred flipped the switch again. "What about my hangar, sir? I need to clean my baby before tomorrow's chores."

"Chores" was just another word for "punishment" in the Air Service, and anyone stupid enough to get on the Captain's bad side deserved the dreaded chores in the first place, according to everyone else.

No one had bothered to explain that to Alfred when he joined.

There was a sympathetic chuckle over the headphones. "You get stuck with chores again, kid? Jesus Christ. You need to tame that tongue of yours." He didn't sound like he felt too bad about it. "Anyway, your hangar is full. Captain said you and the other Breezies would love to give up Hangar Five for the Canadian Geese. Something about familiar interests."

"Wha—Canadian?" Alfred nearly chomped on his own tongue and the aeroplane screamed in protest as he grinded gears. He swore and righted himself before flipping the switch again. "Did you say Canadian Geese, sir?"

"Pretty sure I did, Airman. Do I have to repeat myself?"

"No sir! Did Captain say which Flock it was?" Alfred tried to keep his voice even, but the blood pounding in his ears was making it a little difficult. How long had it been anyway…?

There was some rustling over the headset which sounded suspiciously like papers being rifled through before the Second in Command cleared his throat. "That would be the 11th Flock, Jones. Why they name it after geese, I'll never know." The last part was more or less muttered to himself, but Alfred was beyond listening at that point.

Looking back to this point years later, Alfred could only chalk up to the fact that he landed without a single incident being one of the few miracles in life. It would have been better if he'd flown the plane blind, the way he flipped a few switches, turned off his radio, spotted Hangar Eight, and went into a break neck dive without a second thought.

He never even felt the two tiny landing tires touch the earth before he was out of the cockpit, ripping his helmet off, and tearing off into the runway. He ducked as another, larger model aeroplane came in for a landing, and if anything else tried to stop him, he barreled through it without realizing, his mind set on one destination: his home for the past five months: Hangar Five.

Unlike its usual pristine (and barren) appearance, Hangar Five was filled to breaking point with planes, mechanics, and pilots of every ranking. Through his harried mind, Alfred realized there were even a few older Captains among those standing around their machines, ones with so many stars upon their chests, Alfred would have given his own plane to talk to one of them. Instead, though, he ran right past them and a few of his peers, shouldering past a Canadian Commander who squawked at him as he ran by.

Still, among the sea of people, there was one very important blonde missing.

A Canadian Airman from the back recognized Alfred and waved him over. He was a shorter man with a shock of red hair and crooked teeth that spilled out of an even more crooked smile. Next to him was a Cuban man twice as wide as he was tall that had a glare to match his girth. He didn't look too happy.

Alfred smiled despite it and made his way over. "Hey guys! What're you doin' on American soil?"

The short man rolled his eyes. "Don't go high 'n mighty on us, Jones. We're here for important matters. International matters."

"International matters," scoffed the Cuban. He crossed his arms and scowled. "We should stay out of other people's business, if you ask me. Canada is supposed to be the peacekeeper in all of this. Coming to America to talk war is just asking for trouble."

"Always pleasant talking to you, Carlos," said Alfred, with a general wave of his hand. "But I guess that's why Canada based their Air Strikers off of geese, right? To promote peace?"

Carlos' eyes narrowed, but the short man – Jeff – intervened before the larger man could say much more. "Now, now, we're not here to trade blows. I believe your mirror image is waitin' for you with your Captain, Jones. Some big stink happened and you two are smack in the middle of it."

Alfred groaned, his shoulders sinking. "Are you kidding me? Again?" He cast an eye between the two men, who both looked just as blankly back at him. "Well? What's going on? Did Mattie do something stupid?"

"As if that boy could hurt a fly," snorted Carlos. "Do you even know your own brother? Estupido."

"Truth is we thought it might've been something you did, Jones," Jeff said, again cutting into whatever spat Alfred opened his mouth to start. Al made a face before straightening up, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

"Well, whatever is it, it's not my fault. … I think. I mean, I would know if it was, I'm sure." Alfred frowned, thinking back to the reason why he was given chore duty again. The Captain had been furious with him – but enough to call in his brother and a whole flock of Canadians? That seemed a bit… extreme. Even for his Captain.

"Ah, well, I s'pose there's only one way to find out then, yeah?" Jeff seemed to be bouncing on the balls of his feet. "But when ya find out, c'mon back and give us the low down will ya? Inquirin' minds want to know."

"Inquiring minds who bet their whole paycheck on it being Jones' fault, si?"

Jeff turned an interesting shade of beet-red and he spluttered over his crooked tooth. "T-that is not true! I would never do such a thing-!"

But Alfred was already gone, one hand waving backward at them, his Airman's jacket flapping behind him. "I will! Thanks, Jeff!"

Jeff sighed, running a hand through his hair. He glared accusingly at his comrade. "Matthew would kill me if I got on his brother's bad side too," he whined.

Carlos merely rolled his eyes and turned to his extra-large Goose. "The guy is no good," he said simply. And that was all that mattered to him. And that speck in his plane's near-pristine armor. He flipped out a small, pink handkerchief and swiped at it furiously.

"Mattie!"

Two familiar faces turned to him, neither too amused by his entrance. In fact, they looked down-right pissed.

"Jones," said his Captain coolly, "I'm glad you finally decided to join us." He glanced at the clock on his wall. "Ten minutes late."

Alfred smirked and gave a quick nod. "Anytime, sir."

"Al," Matthew groaned, looking at the end of his very short rope. Like most of the Canadian's in the hangar, he was in his best flying gear hidden beneath the biggest, most suffocating fur-lined coat Al had ever seen. Mandatory in the frigid Canadian air, but the mere thought of wearing something that consuming on a daily basis sent shivers down Alfred's spine. How anyone could work in that…

But there was something else wrong about Matt that threw Al for a loop. Matt had visited with his Flock before – mostly for practice dog-fights, trading moves and tricks, both nation's Air Services trying to out-do each other in friendly combat – but never had he come so… dressed up. It wasn't just his best flying gear – it damn near shined in the dim light the suffocating office offered. And that was saying a lot. Hell, even Alfred's Captain had his hat shined up and the grease scrubbed from his suit.

Alfred Jones felt very under dressed.

Very slowly he closed the door, looking from Captain to brother suspiciously. "What's going on?" His eyes landed on Matt's deep purple ones. "Is something wrong?"

Instead of his twin, it was his Captain who spoke. "Why don't you have a seat, Alfred," he said, his voice low so it almost wasn't an order, but still had that I'm still your superior, jackass air about it. So naturally Al ignored him.

He frowned at the Captain. "First name basis, sir? Does that mean I get to call you Henry from now on?"

Captain Henry steepled his fingers with something very close to a smile. More of a grimace, but the hint was still there, and he regarded the twins with a sad, strained sort of silence. It was one of those stares that was like he was staring through them than at them. Matt finally had to look away with a downward twist of his mouth and Al, even more concerned at his Captain's behavior and his brother's silence, simply took a seat.

They sat quietly like that for a while. Matt, staring at the far wall, Captain Henry at the both of them, and Al at the plaque he had replaced and super-glued to the wall that read Placeholder for Captain Alfred F. Jones' Plaque of Awesome.

"So," began the Captain finally. "Do you two know why you're here?"

"Are we in trouble for something?" Alfred cast a glance at his twin before adding on hurriedly. "Because whatever it is, I didn't do it. At least I'm pretty sure I didn't."

But the Captain only had eyes for Matt. "Williams?"

Matt shot Al a quick apologetic frown before nodding slowly. "I… I have an idea, sir. It has something to do with the attack on Britain's air ships, right?"

A white noise filled Alfred's ears as his Captain gave a long-exhausted sigh and the barest of nods. Matt visibly collapsed into himself, his shoulders hitched taut, as if this confirmed his very worst fear. But Al couldn't understand why – a time of border-line peace wasn't immune to stray attacks or battles. There were always risks involved in any Airforce, no matter the nation it protected. An attack on a few air ships shouldn't have everyone jumping the gun all the way to war. That just wasn't how things were done.

Nor did it explain what this had to do with Matthew and himself.

Or the strange feeling that he had left his stomach somewhere up in his aeroplane.

"I didn't hear about any ships being attacked," he said glancing between the two of them. He hated being out of the loop. "If it's really that big of a deal, why aren't the radios buzzing about it?"

Captain Henry leaned back in his chair with a sort of closed off expression on his face. "That would be because this news hasn't hit the air waves yet, Jones. And it won't, if we can help it – that means you two are under strict orders to not repeat a word about the attackers or the ships attacked once you leave this room. I don't care where you are or who you're with – even with each other – you are not to flap your gums about this. Am I understood?"

Matt sniffed and Alfred gave a half-hearted sort of nod, and the Captain narrowed his eyes at the pilots. His voice suddenly took back on the hardness Alfred was so accustomed to hearing. "I understand this is a difficult time, but you will. Not. Repeat. This. Now, let's try this again. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!" came the two more alert responses. Matt still hadn't looked up from the spot on the wall he was staring through and Al shifted in his seat. He swallowed thickly and focused on his Captain instead.

"If this is so… important," Al began slowly. "Why are you telling us?"

The Captain nodded and pulled out a file from a drawer and laid it gently on the desk in front of them. He kept his hand atop the folder, but Al could just make out the American Air Service: Top Secret insignia stamped crookedly under his fingers. Captain Henry cleared his throat and said, as if he had recited it many times before, "On November 25th at five o'clock in the morning, the Britain Air Ship, the Elizabeth, was attacked by a crew of no more than five Strikers, each baring different flags."

He paused here as if to let that information sink in first. He shifted in his seat, a hand pinching the bridge between his eyes as if fighting off a budding migraine. "The Elizabeth was caught unawares between watches and half their planes were under repair for a routine check-up." He looked up, frowning. "A recalled bolt had half the Britain air ships offline for days. We now believe it was an intentional distraction for this very attack."

"The Elizabeth, despite only having half her crew, fought for nearly an hour before it finally went down. The entirety of the crew is missing, along with her Captain. It has been four days since the Elizabeth fell, meaning… the crew and the Captain are now presumed dead."

Matthew gave a muffled whimper and rubbed roughly at his eyes under his glasses. Captain Henry looked deflated at the end of his speech and did nothing.

Alfred merely stared.

"I… still don't understand," he stammered. The buzzing in his ears had grown nearly unbearable, but he forced himself to ignore it. Stay focused. There's something I'm missing…

"Al..." Matt began but trailed off at the look in his brother's eye. He bit at his lip and stared at his hands instead. "You already know," he muttered. "I can see it in your face."

Now Alfred was just getting annoyed. "Know what, Mattie? What's going on? What's so important about this air ship? Would someone spit it out, already! God, it's like pulling teeth around here-"

"The Elizabeth," the Captain cut in curtly, "Was piloted by one of Britain's most trained Captain of the skies -"

Suddenly the buzzing in Al's ears intensified beyond belief and his breath hitched in his throat.

"-Arthur Kirkl—"

"No."

Captain Henry paused, looking up. "No?"

Alfred shook his head, mind whirling. "N-no, Arthur didn't pilot the Elizabeth. You've got your information wrong – he's been Captain of the Merlin for years! Ever since Mattie and I were just kids, right Matt?" But Matt didn't answer. Alfred pressed on. "Someone else must have died on the Elizabeth or something and you just got your files switched. This is all just one big mix up, and I'm sure Iggy is just gonna milk this for all it's worth when he finds out—"

"Al," Matt broke in suddenly, sounding miserable. "Al, stop."

"But don't you see, Mattie? They're wrong – they've got bad communications! I bet Arthur's over in his precious England figuring it out as we speak."

Matthew's eyes were big and sad as he slowly shook his head, his hair sweeping in his face. "No, Alfred. The Merlin was retired two months ago. Arthur was promoted to the new Elizabeth in September. He sent out a letter explaining… he sounded so excited… "

A stack of old, yellow tinted envelopes scattered carelessly across his desk filled Alfred's mind, all their return stamps expressing proudly the British flag. Their seals still unbroken and unread.

"But I – " Nothing was forming right in Al's head at all. All he knew was his Captain staring sadly at him, Matt's hand on his shoulder, and the feeling that someone had ripped the floor away beneath his feet, leaving him dangling over something very big and empty. It threatened to swallow him whole and he took a shuttering breath to try and regain his grounding. "That can't be right," he whispered. "He can't be… gone."

Not after everything. Not after everything that happened… That he had said. The last time he had seen his adopted brother was the last they had spoken – heated words and scathing remarks and that was nearly two years ago.

Right before he ran away to join some Air Service across the pond just to piss him off.

Two years and they'd never gotten past it.

And now… they never could.

It took several minutes for Alfred to realize the arms wrapped around him and the shoulder he had buried into without thinking was his brother's. It took even longer for him to register that his Captain's soft words and the click of the door closing behind him meant that they were alone and that the deep, soul rattling keen – sounding so lost and torn and small – was coming from him. But knowing all these things and shaking with the sobs that echoed his brother's didn't stop them from coming.

He clung to his twin and Matt held him in that small, suffocating room with the floor that was so harshly removed from them, Alfred had a feeling it would never be coming back.

Now he was constantly flying.

And it was all thanks to Arthur.

Alright, the world is a little vague, I know. The next chapters will be filled with a little more detail to work off of. Tell me what you think so far!

~Left