Series: Condemned

Title: Book 1: Condemn the Free

Summary: The end of the world is coming, and it all started with the disappearance of the United States of America.

Pairings: FrUK, implied RusAme, OC/OC pairings.

Rating: T, may go up.

Warning: Eventual torture, excessive use of OCs.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

"Subject appears to be unaffected by the drug—no sign of brain activity, still appears to be unconscious…Increasing dosage level now."

Doctor Alistair Cruise put down his recorder before swabbing the sleeping man's arm and gently jabbed a needle into a protruding vein. When he was sure that the required amount of the drug had been dispensed, he sat back into his chair, watching apathetically as the subject began to squirm in obvious discomfort. His eyes momentarily landed on the screen next to him, showing brain activity levels. He reached for the recorder again, pressing the 'record' button as he observed the results.

"The drug is fast acting; subject is showing an immediate reaction to the increased dosage. Brain activity is increasing…the drug stimulates the amygdala—what the hell do you want?! Can't you see I'm busy?" Alistair twisted around and pressed the 'stop' button, glaring at the poor soul who'd decided to interrupt him in the middle of his research.

His anger immediately subsided when he noticed who it was. "Ah; Dr. Ziegel. I wasn't expecting you."

Dr. Ziegel, a tall, awkward, gangly black-haired man with big blue eyes, leaned against the doorframe, panting. His face was flushed red with exertion, no doubt from a frantic run through the halls. Dr. Ziegel was known throughout the facility for his kindness and intelligence. He was the psychologist and counselor for the whole building—for the subjects and scientists both. His colleagues were grateful for that; after all, the job they held was not to be taken lightly.

He was also the 'child' of the lab, and was often babied—or as babied as a twenty-two year old psychologist could be. After all, he was in the same building with a bunch of mostly childless bachelors/bachelorettes. This meant that when it was his birthday, they'd throw him a big party, and when he accomplished something, they'd exclaim excitedly over it. Honestly, he was more than a bit annoyed by that fact, but the others weren't too keen on the idea of backing off—they probably didn't even know the definition of 'personal space'.

Dr. Ziegel was also the only one who Alistair would even tolerate; the older, balding man was easily annoyed, and often took his work too seriously. Alistair was thought to be insane (which was probably why Dr. Ziegel liked to hang around with him), and put his work above not only his health, but everyone else's health, too. Whenever he walked the halls, he could be seen doing something work-related: reading a book, scribbling away on a clipboard…

"Hey, Alistair." Dr. Ziegel grinned slightly, one gangly arm reaching up to straighten his white coat. "Sorry to bother you—how's the test going?"

The subject let out a garbled scream. Dr. Ziegel flinched, but Alistair was unaffected. The poor man lurched sideways sickeningly and nearly rolled off the table.

Alistair frowned, reaching over to check the subject's pulse—he'd gone suspiciously still, and the monitor showed no activity.

"Hm…perhaps that was too great a dosage. He died." With a flourish, Alistair pressed the speaker button next to him and recited a concise message: "I need an autopsy done on a body. Now would be preferable. If you're late, I'll be using you next." Without waiting for a response, Alistair clicked the button again.

"Now that that's taken care of…what do you need?"

Dr. Ziegel's smile faded slightly, but he courageously plowed on. "Uh...new subject. It's...uh...Alpha. Order came straight from the president." As though he had just remembered something, he glanced over his shoulder, checking for anyone else in the hall. Satisfied and slightly embarrassed, he leaned in closer. "Top secret, too. Only the best are working on it. You, obviously. And...uh..." He looked vaguely pleased, though he seemed to be trying to mask it. "Me, too. Dr. Kolia-Kolio-"

"Koliabskaia." Alistair corrected absentmindedly; he'd often worked with the stoic Russian scientist, and had found him good company. When people forgot how to say the other man's name, however…Alistair really didn't want to think about it.

"Right…sorry. And Dr. Von Arx—"

"The new Swiss transfer?" Alistair's voice was slightly disbelieving; himself, a German, Dr. K (as he was affectionately called), a Russian, and Dr. Von Arx, the Swiss transfer? "Is this an American project or an international one?"

Ziegel chuckled dryly, rubbing the back of his neck. His face was back to its normal pale hue, and he was breathing regularly and slowly. "That was my reaction, but…apparently, they're—we're—the best for the job. And the president wants this subject cloned as soon as possible. No; he wants us mass producing clones as soon as possible." He sighed, flicking an errant piece of hair out of his face. "I've heard that this subject is really special. Straight out of a sci-fi novel."

"Huh." Alistair's frown deepened. He didn't really have an interest in science fiction novels, though Ziegel seemed enamored by them—his most recent obsession, War of the Worlds, had a habit of intruding into many an unrelated conversation.

Dr. Ziegel swallowed nervously, attracting Alistair's piercing gaze. "And…um, Alistair…There's…something else I should probably mention."

There was a sinking feeling in the pit of Alistair's stomach, as though he knew what the younger scientist was going to say. Oh please, please don't let it be…

"Doctor—Doctor Shay will be working with us."

Those words were enough to spark a plume of rage inside of him; he didn't even bother to respond as he shot up from his chair, knocking it backwards. Ignoring the two white-clad figures hovering (suddenly terrified) just outside the door—the autopsy crew he had ordered, probably—he began to stride angrily through the halls, sending out an aura of fury, leaving bunches of frightened people in his wake.

Dr. Ziegel ran after him, following closely, trying to stop him before he did something stupid and potentially jeopardizing towards his job. It was very hard to keep up with the older scientist—even though the man was almost 40 years older than him, Alistair was surprisingly fast and Ziegel was finding it hard to keep up.

Ziegel's foot accidently caught on thin air, and he toppled over, letting out a cry of surprise as he fell. Even so, Alistair ignored him. As much as Alistair cared for his younger partner, there were more important things to worry about—like Doctor Shay.

Doctor Shay was an embodiment of everything that was and ever had been evil: temptation, adultery, cheating bitches that had no consideration for others—

That woman was hell in high heels.

Alistair stomped towards his boss's office, a low growl rolling out of his throat in anticipation of what he would do to the bastard. His boss—whose name was kept a secret (just in case), but was known as K—knew that Alistair hated that French woman! Of course she's French, He thought angrily, reaching for the handle. Only the French could be that cruel and still be that sexy—

As he jerked the door open, he froze. Standing there, hands planted on the desk, was Doctor Shay. Time had been kind to her; somehow the silver in her hair had only served to make her seem more elegant and refined than old and frail. Her piercing, intelligent blue eyes stared into his own pale gray set, and time seemed to freeze.

"Doctor Shay." Alistair said coldly, walking forward towards the desk. "I'd ask why you were here, but I believe we are here for the same reason."

"Alistair." In an equally chilling voice, she removed her pale hand from the desk and folded her arms. "It's been a while. Still out destroying women's lives? Or have you finally grown out of that?" Looking cruelly amused, her eyes traveled to his hands. "No ring? Still married to your work, I suppose, aren't you?"

God, she even still had that sexy French accent.

Alistair stared at her equally bare finger, and a small smirk appeared on his face. "What of it? At least I am faithful to my one love. Unlike you, you cheating schlampe—"

"Enough, the both of you! Why is it that my two best scientists are squabbling children?" Boss K shouted, causing the bickering pair to jump and fall silent. He sighed as they watched him with slightly ashamed faces and rubbed his hands over his face in a self-pitying way. "Can't you put aside your differences just this once? For the sake of the project?"

Alistair rubbed the back of his head, and opened his mouth to respond—

–and at just that moment, Dr. Ziegel limped into the room, red-faced and breathing heavily. He abruptly froze when he caught sight of the others; the tension in the air was nearly palpable. His mouth dropped open very slightly, wobbled…then, breathlessly, he said, "Ah…never mind, then. Wrong room. Need to go…fix my ankly—no, um my ankle. My ankle. Twisted my ankle, clumsy old me! Ha! Ha…"

"Z," Boss K interjected, somewhat weary. "It's fine, you can come in. We need a good mediator," He let out another long sigh and picked up the mug on his desk, muttering something about 'needing something stronger than coffee…'. "I know you two don't like each other, and I understand. Bad blood. But there's nothing I can do about it. You two are the best we've got—the best. Mr. President won't have anyone but the best working on this project. He's very interested in this, and has generously granted us a large sum of money. Just this once—just this once—do me a favor and work together?"

Dr. Shay eyed Alistair, who glared back. They both understood that they'd never be able to put aside their 'differences'—but they could put their hatred in the back seat for the sake of this…project, since it apparently was so important.

"Fine." Alistair growled, "But if she gets within ten feet of me—"

"Likewise."

The Boss looked as though he wanted to protest, but he sighed instead, as though finally realizing that his attempts at some sort of peace were not going to be fruitful. Instead, he checked his phone, as though he was waiting for an important call—and indeed, he was. Just a second later, the phone buzzed. It was next to his ear in a second, eyes flying to the ceiling as he listened to the message. The call lasted about five seconds, and he only said one phrase throughout the entire thing. "Copy. Over and out."

Then, he placed the cellphone down on the table, and examined the team with calculating eyes. They stiffened under his hawk-like gaze. After several heavy seconds of silence, Boss K growled, "Are you prepared to accept this project? I don't want any mistakes. I repeat; no mistakes. Do you understand?"

Dr. Ziegel glanced at the others in obvious confusion, eyes wide. Alistair gave him a look, and shrugged, just as unsure as the younger scientist was. Dr. Shay tilted her head as well, somehow understanding that this would be a major turning point in all their lives. Noticing the obviously confused pair next to her, she sighed and flipped her hair over her shoulder. Men.

The question was met with one, "oui", a nod, and a slightly bewildered sounding "yeah".

"Then come and meet project America."

Canada, a.k.a. Matthew Williams, walked slowly down the street, lips wrapped around the French baguette he'd bought from the nearby Panera Bread. He was almost completely silent as he passed people, and they took no notice of him, even when he nearly ran into them and apologized with a soft, "sorry".

He sighed quietly as his stride ate up the sidewalk, content with this arrangement. He'd never really liked being noticed, especially by all these crazy Americans; though sometimes they could actually be quite polite, he supposed, remembering the lady at the Panera. She had smiled slightly and given him the exact amount of change before telling him to enjoy his day. Yes; not all the people in America were that bad.

The actual country, however, was another story entirely.

America himself was loud, brutish, and didn't have an ounce of shame (or tact, for that matter). Even if you hadn't ever met him, you'd know that he was annoying and overly happy; there was something about his blindingly bright smile and sparkly blue eyes that seemed way. Too. Cheerful. He gave off enough of his own natural light to give a goth a seizure.

But, Canada mused, in the end, his heart is in the right place. Thank God. If we had a cruel, evil super-power, everyone would be enslaved to his will.

Speaking of the country, he'd actually been missing for about a month. The last time Matthew had heard from him was when America had called complaining about his new boss. Apparently even his naïve brother had felt the deception coming off the president in waves of barely concealed malice. Canada frowned, remembering.

"The guy is like a wolf in sheep's clothing! I swear. It's almost disgusting—like something that's waaaaay too sweet. Sickly sweet, I guess." America's voice was mostly sincere and unhappy, though there was a touch of the ever-so-slightly whiny tone that had Canada more amused than worried.

It was most likely that the man wasn't going to be trouble. "That's nice…do you think he's a threat?"

"Yes. Hell yes." There was a pause, and a soft rustling noise; probably America running his hand through his hair tiredly. Canada was slightly alarmed by the change of tone—from slightly whiny to very, very serious. Whoever this guy was, he might actually be dangerous. "Dammit. I have a meeting with him tomorrow. The guy puts me on an edge." A soft sigh. "I'll work everything out with him then."

Canada opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to find the right words. Finally, he just said, "Take care of yourself, Al."

America laughed a loud, happy laugh. "Of course! Nothing bad is going to happen. I'm the hero, after all!"

The serious moment had passed. Canada smiled, and they fell into their easy conversation—America babbling while Canada sat there, content just to listen to his brother's rambling voice.

But a little niggling voice in the back of his head whispered, 'Why did it sound like he was trying to convince himself?'

Canada been coming to D.C. anyways because of the meeting; it made perfect sense to check up on his brother while he was here. He shoved another bite of bread into his mouth. I'm sure it's nothing, he thought, I'm sure when I knock on his apartment he'll open it up and be like, "Oh, dude, you were worried about me? Geez, Mattie, you're such a chick."

In fact, now he was kind of angry at America for making him worry about his ungrateful ass. Sometimes Canada felt like the older brother, always keeping track of his other half and making sure the other didn't get into any trouble. Canada cooked for his brother, cleaned up his messes, and even took the heat whenever America got into trouble. And when Canada had confronted him, he'd nearly got a face full of chainsaw for his troubles! When I get there, I'm going to give him a serious piece of my mind! The country huffed, quickening his pace, and downing the last bit of the baguette.

You're deluding yourself. Damn voice.

I know.

He's in trouble. You can feel it. He's your other half. You know that he's in trouble!

Shut up. Just shut up. Please.

Just what are you trying to accomplish? Someone might be torturing him! He could be dying! You can feel that he's in pain! Do something, you cowardly—

"Shut up." He growled to himself, this time out loud. It earned some odd looks from the few passersby that actually noticed him. Canada struggled to calm himself down, knowing that he was coming off as a weirdo to several people. I don't need to freak out the citizens. And that would be very, very bad.

Because his brother could bench-press a truck without breaking a sweat. And he was also fiercely protective of his citizens.

Yes, his heart was in the right place. But his heart also happened to have a very, very strong case of a hero-complex, willing to go from Clark Kent (aka easy-going all-American boy) to Superman, busting a few heads to protect his people.

And actually, a lot of people felt the same way about him.

So no freaking out the population. That was a big no-no.

As Canada approached America's apartment (that was where his brother stayed whenever they had a meeting), he was slightly surprised to see two men in black standing outside, looking as though they were about to break down the door. This panicked Canada greatly; not two summers before, some psychopath had kicked down America's door, claiming that the jovial country was an evil spirit and planning on taking over the world.

That did not go over well with America, who had promptly busted the guys face in and called the cops. Strangely enough, those same cops had stayed for dinner while the injured guy laid on the floor, handcuffed to the table, head within range of America's giant foot.

Americans were so weird.

But anyway, the two men didn't seem all that insane, so Canada hurried slightly, then slowed when he reached them. The two men hadn't given him a second glance at first, but when they finally noticed him they recoiled abruptly, as though they'd just seen a ghost, and in their moment of surprise Canada got a better look at them.

They were very nondescript; their only distinguishing features were that they had none. They had obviously been designed to blend into the background—not literally, as Canada could have, but as close to it as possible. They both had military-styled buzz-cuts, features sharp and angular. Their shoulders were broad and muscled, though one was significantly shorter than the other—and he also looked slightly meaner. The taller one had a more relaxed attitude, hands buried deep in his pocket, back slouched over.

Well, not anymore. But they had been, before they'd seen Canada. Now they were drawing their guns and holy shit—

"Stop! Don't shoot! It was Alfred's fault, not me! I swear I didn't do it!"

When someone points guns at him, it's usually his brother's fault. No, scratch that. It's always his brother's fault.

Hey, it was instinct. Can you really blame him?

The smaller one began snarling quietly to the taller one, looking more than a little confused. The taller one still had a slightly relaxed look, though to a keen eye it appeared tense and aware. For this reason, Canada assumed the taller one was the more dangerous one.

Tall (for that was what Canada had decided to call him) leaned over and murmured something to Shorty. Shorty looked over at Tall, and snarled something back. Tall gestured to Canada with one hand—not releasing the gun—and Shorty reluctantly looked at him again, narrowing his eyes in obvious contempt.

Shorty's expression cleared, and he slowly lowered the gun. Tall mimicked him. Neither of them put their guns into their holsters.

He was right when he assumed that the tall one was the most dangerous. He had obviously been sent to control his hot-headed partner; words were a better weapon than guns could ever be. Shorty had been just itching to shoot Canada, damn the consequences. And in just a couple words, Tall had easily calmed him down.

"T-Thank you," Canada sighed noisily and placed his hand over his heart, trying to exaggerate his movements as best he could. Better they think him a harmless little coward than a threat. "For a moment I thought you were going to shoot me!" He peered at them through his thick glasses. "Are you looking for my brother? He'd have known you were here by now. He's probably half-way across the country. He's a slippery one!" He let out a high-pitched, fakey laugh. "But of course his little friends come looking for me. Oh-ho, does he warn me? N-No. Of course not!" Canada was really getting into it; actually starting to mean the words he was saying. "No, he lets me deal with every damn bastard that comes along, no matter who it is! If I had a penny for every time I was mistaken for—"

"That's nice, sir," Tall's eyebrows were twitching by now, and Shorty had stepped back several feet. Canada immediately wilted; he hadn't meant to get that into it… "I assume you're related to Alfred F. Jones?"

Huh. He hadn't even flinched at Canada's anger. Not only was he persuasive, he was tough, too.

For some reason, he didn't want to reveal that he and America were twins; something about this whole situation screamed trouble. Why else would two men be standing outside of America's house, wielding guns?

If that wasn't trouble, he didn't know what was.

"Adopted brothers," Canada responded flippantly. "Can I help you? Who are you?"

Tall glanced down at Shorty, who immediately growled out, "I'm Agent Devon, and this is Agent Bea. We have a warrant to search this apartment." Agent Devon paused, and then said, "It wasn't mentioned in Jones's file that he had a brother."

The country laughed nervously, and rubbed the back of his head. "We've been roommates for the longest time, and we look so much alike…it's not really official or anything." Technically. Ha ha. "Why do you need to search his apartment? What agency are you with? What's going on?"

Devon furrowed his brow, and looked up at Bea. The taller agent smiled softly, though there was an almost unnoticeable warning in it. "We're with Homeland Security. We've found that your brother has been conspiring against the president and currently have him in custody. We're here to see if he was alone, or if he was working with a terrorist group."

Canada's mouth dropped. He could not have stopped it if he tried. W-What?

The tall agent misinterpreted the expression, nodding gravely. "I know it must come as a shock to you, Mr.…?"

"Williams. Matthew Williams." He whispered numbly.

"Mr. Williams. I know you make think that your brother is innocent, but he attacked the president right in front of us. If it weren't for our quick reflexes, the president would be dead." Bea nodded gravely, really getting into the spiel. "Now, if you could let us into the apartment?"

Canada was suddenly very glad that America's actual home in Pennsylvania was not listed in his file.

"Uh, of course. Please don't break down the door. I stay here whenever I visit D.C. It'd be a pain to replace it." Canada smiled meekly, deciding to go with a, 'I'm a harmless little mouse who is no threat' look.

Bea still didn't look convinced by the act. He turned and murmured something to Agent Devon, who gave Canada a suspicious glare before thrusting his hands into his pockets and sitting gloomily on the cement rail. Bea then twisted around to look at Canada, and asked, "Why do you visit D.C.? Do you have a job in the capital?"

I'll pretend I don't notice you interrogating me,Canada thought viciously to himself. I'll pretend you don't sound really suspicious. I'll just keep doing that, then. "Oh, I'm from Canada originally. I'm actually an ambassador, so I'm here pretty often." This time, the smile was genuine. "Al takes care of me while I'm here. He can be annoying sometimes, and a slob, and tactless, and rude…" He coughed. "Anyway, he's really loyal. He'd never betray me…" Canada's softened face turned into an evil glare. "Or his country. Check him for drugs. Look for blackmail. The president might've said something to piss Alfred off, but he'd never betray his country. You're severely mistaken."

Bea recoiled slightly. Canada winced; some of his ancient fury must've shown in his eyes. It tended to happen sometimes, if he ever got really angry. If he wasn't careful, the agents might consider him dangerous. Canada forced himself to avert his gaze, and visibly wilted. "I'm sorry. You'll have to forgive me; it's been a long day…"

The agent stiffened, and gave him a weak, cautious smile. "No, it's fine. I suppose I shouldn't press you any more than necessary…you were obviously very close to your brother."

"Damn straight," Canada muttered under his breath and angrily jabbed the key into the lock, twisting it with violent jerk. The door slid open with a slight creak (Canada frowned; America liked to keep the door oiled to perfection. Even the tiniest of noises freaked him out.), reluctantly admitting Canada and his unwanted guests.

"Please remove your shoes at the door," he muttered to himself, glaring at the two agents who walked past him, not even bothering to remove their shoes and coats.

Canada sighed, and turned to follow them.

Somewhere in Washington, not too far away from the Canadian border, a blonde slumbered on a metal table.

His eyes snapped open.

Wooooah, guys, what a reaction to that first chapter! I was shocked, and really happy too! Haha. Anyway, I know this chapter isn't nearly as exciting as the first one, but hey. All in good time, folks, all in good time. I've got to introduce all the important OCs! Later on I'll probably make a list, because there will be quite a few.

One thing I should warn you folks: my beta is really, really slowly. I mean, a chapter every few months slow. I'll still be posting whether it's been beta-ed or not, but just note that after the sixth or seventh chapter the quality might start to nosedive. Be aware of this, please.

Reviews:

Hammsters: I feel honored! :D I'm SO GLAD I made you abuse the caps lock button-means I'm doing a good job! Here's your update!

OnyxBunneraffe: I get a lot, lot meaner to Al, actually. Hold onto your seat, because this poor guy is in for a bumpy ride ;). Hope you enjoyed the chapter!

.750: I was kind of hoping to make it intense a sort of at-the-edge-of-your-seat first chapter, especially since this one is so slow. I had a lot of fun writing it, to tell you the truth. There's a lot more suspense in later chapters, though-hope you can handle it!

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed/favorited/subscribed!

IceEckos12