Series: Condemned
Title: Book One: 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.
"Arthur!"
Hearing his name being called, the personification of the island nation looked up from his copy of the American newspaper, tea in one hand, and the other holding down the current page. He was frowning ever-so-slightly, obviously displeased about something he'd read. England was wearing his casual clothes: an olive-green sweater vest, paired with a crisp white shirt and long brown pants. His grim green eyes peered out from beneath two giant, fuzzy eyebrows.
He glanced back down at the newspaper, then up at France, who was running towards him with a loping gait. Reluctantly, he put the paper down, and turned so he could better see the frog. France's face was anxious and confused. England sighed; he knew exactly what this was about.
"So, you've read it too?"
"Who hasn't?" France unfolded the newspaper previously clamped under his arm, and cleared his throat. "'This just in: the Secret Service has apprehended a terrorist, a twenty-one year old college student named Alfred F. Jones.' Do you know what's going on?"
England picked up his own newspaper, and turned to the article he'd been reading only seconds before. The same words that France had just read out loud blazed in black ink across the top of the page; they were impossible to ignore, even when England squinted his eyes and turned the page slightly and tried to imagine with all his heart that they weren't there. "He…" England closed his eyes and shook his head. "I don't know. He mentioned that he was suspicious of his new president, but he didn't talk about anything as drastic as this." He swallowed heavily. "I don't know what to think. You know Alfred—do you think he could ever do something like this?"
France plopped down rather ungracefully into the chair next to England. He let out a soft sigh. "Alfred was a fool, but he was a patriotic fool. He would only attack his boss if he had good reason. And that is what scares me." He stroked his bearded chin, handsome face troubled. "If Alfred—who would not attempt to hurt a fly unprovoked—attacked the president…what kind of man is he? What does he have planned? This does not bode well for America. This does not bode well for the rest of the world."
England frowned right along with him. He'd already worked this out before France had come, but hearing someone else echo his opinion made it seem much more plausible. If America himself—who believed that everyone American deserved a second chance—had attacked the president, then what monster had been unleashed upon the world? And now this monster had the most powerful military on the planet.
Usually whenever presidents got all weird on America, he would just weather it out on Canada. Why would he actually attack the president? That didn't make any sense at all. Of course, he could've just threatened or injured the president during an attempt to escape or an argument. Many presidents had tried to arrest America, thinking that he was some sort of fraud, and a cruel one at that. Sometimes, it took the threat of a fist to the face to shut some of the wordier leaders of the free world up. But that would be the most England could imagine America doing under normal circumstances.
And even in extreme circumstances…America would never betray his country. Ever. It was impossible, considering his ridiculous loyalty and obsessive heroism.
"Assuming that he even attacked the president at all." England muttered, earning a stoic nod from France. "It is quite possible that this article is a lie."
He needed to discuss this with someone higher up. Someone who knew what, exactly, was going on.
England rose to his feet. "C'mon, we need to talk to someone. I wonder if I can still go to the White House…"
France looked slightly doubtful, but got up anyway, smoothing his shirt unhappily. "What if the president arrests us as well? Despite this, we must keep a good relationship with notreAmérique."
This made England pause; they all knew how powerful America was these days. Not to mention smart, as well—America was not a country to be toyed with (other countries always seemed to forget that, constantly calling him a stupid buffoon). It would not be a very good idea to provoke him, even unintentionally. He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. Hopefully, he thought. This is all a terrible misunderstanding. Perhaps Alfred just said something that he shouldn't have to his boss. He can be incredibly tactless sometimes. After a second, he spoke aloud. "This is probably all a misunderstanding. We just need to put in a good word for Alfred, or we'll never get him back. That idiot would just be digging his own grave."
France relaxed slightly, and smiled. "Of course. With notre chère Amérique, whenever he opens his mouth, he inserts his enormous foot." Noticing that England was on the move, France followed him out the door of the hotel café, quickly catching up to the island nation's short strides. There was a lull in the conversation while England signed them both out, and France spoke again—but slowly, as though the thought had been lurking in the back of his mind for a while. "What I don't understand…"
England glanced over curiously.
"Why would they make such a thing public?"
At England's confused blink, he elaborated.
"Think about it. Alfred is friends with many people—many important people. No doubt someone would try to retrieve him, as we are doing. The people who really know him would know that he would never do such a thing." France frowned pensively. "Many people would be angry. More than many."
England stared at him, mind churning. That was a very good point. Alfred was best friends with all of the Supreme Court Justices, and regularly had coffee and played golf with the chief of White House staff—he even had a key to Bill Gates' summer home, amongst many other things belonging to some of his most powerful citizens. England really didn't know how he kept track of them all. However, that was not the point; the point was that if anyone truly knew America, then they would know that he would never betray his country. And they would be very angry if anyone suggested such a thing. In fact, they would likely march right up to D.C. and start causing a fuss.
Then it clicked.
"Oh." He whispered, stopping abruptly on the sidewalk, staring thoughtfully at a speck on the ground.
France, who had continued walking, paused when he noticed that England had frozen. "What is the matter?"
"Oh—well, he knows how to play his cards correctly." England ran a hand through his hair. "I was ready to march up there and demand that they release him. A-a rookie mistake. That's…"
"What?" France demanded nervously, tapping his foot against the ground. "Don't play games, Angleterre! Tell me!"
"He put that in the papers on purpose. The president is trying to draw out all of America's friends." Something else clicked. England's eyes widened, fists curling subconsciously. "He doesn't know if there are more countries. He thinks that if he dangles America on a thread in front of us, we'll come looking for him—if there are any of us. And we almost fell for it."
France suddenly looked very scared. "If we had come…"
"I don't know what would've happened. But whatever he wants us for, we won't let him have it. This is obviously something much deeper than we expected." England opened his fist, and stared at his palm. There were three red crescents where his fingernails had dug into his skin. His eyes flickered up to France's, startling the other country with their intensity—so much that the Frenchman almost took a step back. "We need to get to the bottom of this. France, are you willing to help me?"
Seeing France's unsure, hesitant look, England growled. "Come on, France! Don't help me; help Alfred. You know he's in trouble. Or else the president wouldn't have done this."
"Perhaps you're reading into this too much," France said delicately, trying not to look ashamed.
"You've practically been a second father to him, France. When he actually needs your help, are you going to let him down?"
France looked longingly at the French-style café down the street (not that the food would ever be as good as it was at home; but when one was homesick, almost anything would do), and sighed. Loudly. "I suppose. Where do we start?"
England grinned widely, clearly pleased with France's response.
"His apartment."
"Would you like something to drink? I have coffee, juice—Hey! B-be careful with that!"
They hadn't even been in the apartment for five minutes, and they had already almost given Canada several heart attacks.
Agent Devon glanced up from the pot he was holding, which was an old Apache one that had been Canada's mother—Native America—'s. However, Devon didn't know that. Instead, a sneer curled on his lips, and he said, "What could be so special about a cruddy little pot like this?"
Canada was about to respond, which would've meant insults. A lot of insults. At that moment, however, Agent Bea stepped in, gently removed the pot from his partner's hands, and giving him a cold glare. Agent Devon recoiled fearfully, stepping back as Bea put the pot back on the shelf. Canada watched the exchange curiously, trying to get a feel for their roles. It was obvious that Agent Bea was the leader, and Agent Devon was probably a rookie. Most likely. The way he acted—rash at times, but instantly fearful when it came to Agent Bea—made it obvious that they weren't equals. Agent Devon seemed like the type who'd want to take charge and poke fun at his partners, and the only ways he wouldn't were if a) His partner was his boss—actual boss; not caretaker, or b) If he was a rookie and knew that him not paying attention would equal screwing up. Big time. Canada guessed it was the latter. Actually, that was probably the reason Bea was doing all the talking. It was always good to see a senior officer in action—though Bea probably wasn't appreciating working the case and looking after Devon at the same time.
"A-As I was saying," Canada said, smiling tightly, "Would you like something to drink?"
Agent Bea—who'd been pretty relaxed the entire time, just as when Canada had first seen him—glanced away from the pot and smiled back. "I'm sorry about my partner. He's new."
Agent Devon growled. Bea sent him another cold glare. Devon shut up. "And coffee would be splendid."
Ah-ha. He'd guessed it.
"Oh, no, it's quite alright." Canada turned around and flipped on the coffee machine. He got out the best grounds he could find—an Independence Day present from Italy—and began to work on preparing the drinks. Honestly, he didn't really want to make anything for them; it was just that cooking calmed his mind. That and maple syrup, but America didn't stock up on the good kind unless he knew someone was coming over. Canada opened up the cupboard and stared distastefully at America's sorry excuse for his brother's favorite topping—no doubt filled with preservatives and dyes and all sorts of nasty things. Probably didn't even taste remotely similar. Is it worth it? He wondered, reaching out and stroking the bottle. If Al finds out, he'll never let me live it down. Reluctantly, he forced his hand back to his side…but then he felt a sudden pang go through him. If he ever finds out. If is good.
He picked up the bottle.
"Who's this?"
He nearly dropped the bottle. Internal alarms started going off in his head. Who was that? Gah!
Canada managed to grab the syrup (imitation) before it tumbled out of his adrenaline-pumped hand and whirled around to face the source of the voice. Agent Bea. Damn it. Canada tried to unclench his fist before Bea noticed—it was a stock reaction for most of the nations to punch the lights out of anyone who startled them. One could probably blame it on instinct. When you've lived through that many wars, and seen that many people die, you get a little twitchy. Sure, you can't die, but things like shrapnel to the skull sure do hurt. Thus, Canada had been seconds away from braining the unsuspecting agent.
Ignorant to the situation he'd nearly gotten himself into, Bea thrust a photograph into Canada's face. Slightly surprised, Canada found himself face to face with himself, an overly-happy America, a mock-scowling England, and a jokingly-sexy France. The picture had been taken last year when France and England had invited the North American twins on a vacation to Europe; he could clearly see the Eiffel Tower standing proudly in the background. He remembered the memory.
"Hey, hey! Look over there—c'mon, Mattie!" America grabbed Canada's wrist, and began dragging him towards the Eiffel Tower.
France chuckled fondly at the familiar sight, and followed them at a more subdued pace. England walked beside him, a sentimental smile on his face. Just before Canada got out of earshot, he heard, "They still act like children. They're so innocent; I hope they never grow up."
Canada puzzled over the statement, looking over his shoulder to watch the pair as their voices faded. Wasn't England the one who always complained about how they needed to grow up? Perhaps he was getting old. More likely, Europeans were just weird.
Probably.
"Wooooow!" America shouted, jarring Canada out of his thoughts. His brother, who looked unusually tiny beneath the giant structure, started spinning around, unintentionally dragging him along for the ride. "Wouldja lookat that! Wow—this is so cool! Can you imagine the planning it took to make this? This is an architectural masterpiece! So coooooool!"
Canada managed to detach his hand from his brother's tight grip, and immediately got flung to the ground. He watched as England came up and began berating his brother about his actions; a second later a warm hand placed itself on his back, and blond hair that wasn't his hung in his face. "Es-tu ça va, mon cher?"
"Bien, merci." Canada smiled up at his mentor, accepting France's hand, and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. Switching to English, he glanced over at America. "Al was really excited about this vacation. He's been talking about it for weeks. I don't think he's ever seen the Eiffel Tower up close before."
France looked vaguely surprised, glancing over at America curiously as he waved his hands around, talking excitedly to England. The poor Brit looked like he wanted to kill himself. "Vraiment? I didn't know. I…"
France didn't get to finish his sentence as he was cut off by America shouting, "Francis! Mattie! C'mere!"
The pair glanced over at America—who was pumping his arm back and forth, the camera in one hand. England looked more than slightly upset next to him. France laughed, "It seems that America wants a picture. I do not think he realizes that someone else will have to take it for us."
Canada chuckled softly; America was never the sort of person to think ahead. Going a little further, he mused, America was never the sort of person to think at all. Yeah, like he hadn't already figured that out centuries before.
"Dude, Mattie, I'm so excited!" Canada's over-excited brother wrapped his arms around him in a bone-crushing bear hug. Canada's breath whooshed out of his chest, and he desperately tried to suck some air into his crushed lungs. "This is the best vacation ever! It's been so long since we all got together for something like this!"
"Y-yeah," Canada squeaked, trying to smile, "T-the best." Only France seemed to notice how blue Canada's face was turning.
France laughed, and jovially slammed his fist into America's shoulder. It didn't really seem to hurt the star-spangled moron at all, comparable to a little bee sting on a bear. However, it affected him enough that he dropped his brother and turned on France. "Dude, what the hell? We're here to enjoy ourselves; we're not supposed to be attacking each other! Speaking of enjoying ourselves…" America grinned. "I want to remember this! We need a picture!"
"We can't take a picture, you wanker, that's what I've been trying to tell you!" England finally stepped in, his signature scowl on his face, sounding perhaps a little less annoyed than he looked. "We need someone else to take it, and I will not allow you to go up to one of the population!" He shook his head angrily. "We do not need that kind of trauma on our hands. Hand over the camera!"
America's face fell ever so slightly, then his smile returned, just as full and bright as before. "What? I'm sure one of them would be happy to take one for us!" He looked around, spotted a civilian (poor thing), and before England or France could stop him, waved him down. "Bonjour!" he called, in an atrocious accent. "Bonjour, mademoiselle!"
"Stop!" England shouted, at the same time that France said, "Mon dieu!"
It took the countries five minutes to calm the civilian down, but by the time things were over, he (yes; he—for all America's power, he was terrible at French) was perfectly willing to take the picture for them. Canada had to give him some credit.
Canada smiled. The camera flashed.
Returning to the present, Canada looked up at Bea, and then back down at the picture, before sighing and reaching up to open the cabinet. As he was removing Al's pancake mix (there were some things that he could reconcile himself with, at least), he responded, "Those are my…" He paused. "We were college friends. All of us. Al—Alfred—had never seen the Eiffel Tower, and Francis was originally from France, so…" He laughed and ripped open the box with a little more force than necessary. "He agreed to take us."
Bea, who had obviously expected something akin to a confession of America's evil ways, looked a little shocked—and with a solemn silence walked out of the room, no doubt to set the photo back down. And to start tearing the quiet little apartment apart again. Canada glanced over his shoulder, rhythmically whisking the batter, and let out a soft sigh. They would never find what they were looking for here. No country kept old pictures around, and they never allowed themselves to be photographed in public unless they were the only recipients of the photos. If someone else were to recognize a country in a photo from years and years ago, their identities would most likely be revealed. Photos from over twenty years ago were stored in vaults in Geneva, Switzerland.
Just about every one of the hundreds of countries and smaller unofficial nations in the world were grateful that Switzerland was and for centuries has been a neutral country. Switzerland wasn't exaggerating when he said all the world's valuables were stored within his borders.
Bea was barking up the wrong tree. In fact, he was an ocean away from the right tree.
Canada flipped a pancake and sighed. That safety still didn't change the fact that America was gone, held captive by his own government. There was no way a country could be a terrorist to their own people unless they were in some way compromised. Given that America's drug of choice was Coca-Cola, and his anger fits passed quickly, the more likely option was that his president was holding him captive because he was a country. They might not find outside evidence to prove it, but they still had America, the genuine article, and his probable confession. They didn't really need any other evidence; they were just making sure there weren't any other countries—or friends party to his secret—that America might have.
He didn't notice Agent Devon's presence until he was standing next to him.
"Gah!" Canada nearly dropped the spatula; it was only due to his quick reflexes that he managed to catch it. Quickly he whipped around to stare at the Agent, glad he'd managed to restrain himself. "C-can I help you?" He asked nervously.
It was then that he noticed that the agent was staring hungrily at the pancakes. Canada sighed loudly; Americans always thought with their stomachs, not their heads. Either Agent Devon didn't notice his loud sigh, or just didn't care, because he said, "Hey. How many pancakes are you making?"
"Would you like one?" Canada turned to flip the pancake before it burned. "I've made plenty. I always cook when I'm stressed."
The Agent didn't hesitate. "Sure. Cool. Where are the plates?"
Several minutes later, they were both sitting at the table, Devon hungrily stuffing his face with the pancake, Canada just sitting there, poking dejectedly at his own. The American didn't even seem to realize how heavy and uncomfortable the air was, continuing to shovel the food in. Canada couldn't watch him. It felt too much like he was looking at Alfred, stuffing another of the fresh, homemade pancakes into the bottomless pit that was his stomach. No matter how much his older brother liked hamburgers, he would always insist that he liked 'Mattie's' pancakes even more.
"Damn, Mattie, how do you do it? You cook better than any girl I know. These are fucking delicious!"
Tears started to prick his eyes. His brother was so stupid. So naïve. But…he was so wonderfully simple, like a child. Something as simple as Canada's pancakes could keep him on cloud nine all day! How could anyone even think that America would even consider betraying anyone at all? Sure, America could be unintentionally rude, but he had never tried to make anyone angry (unless it was Russia, but that was a given).
Canada sighed and put his fork down. He couldn't eat anything, feeling too sick.
Finally, finally, Devon seemed to notice how awkward everything was; his eyes widened ever so slightly, and he slowly put his fork down, even though there was a pancake hanging half out of his mouth. Ever-so-slowly he chewed and swallowed the portion in his mouth, and gave up on the rest of the pancake, letting it drop back to the plate. He carefully picked up a napkin, wiped his mouth, and placed it back down. Tentatively, he said, "So, uh…your brother. You guys were close, yeah?"
Canada snorted.
Devon shifted. "Yeah, uh, sorry. Stupid question." He paused. "You really think he's innocent?"
"I know he is," Canada practically snarled at him, clenching his fingers, "You really think he's not?"
There was a long moment of silence, and suddenly Canada realized how unfair it'd been to snap at him. After all, the poor rookie was just doing his job. "Listen…I'm sorry. It's just been a stressful day. You didn't…" He frowned. "You didn't know him. You've probably only seen his picture."
"I shot him."
Canada turned his head sharply to look at the agent. "What?"
Agent Devon looked down in shame, hands balled into loose fists on the table. "Do you know how many tranq darts it took? Four. The first one in the arm didn't even faze him. The second one in his lower back didn't really do much. The third one in his shoulder sent him crashing into the wall—but even then, he had the presence of mind to hide in a closet. The final tranq was in his neck, and that was what finally forced him asleep. I don't even think he noticed it."
Canada stared at the other in horror, not even sure what to say.
"I'd never shot at anyone before." He said quietly. "And this guy—your brother—was tough. He was really, really tough. He…he ripped the door off its hinges and threw it at us. I'd never seen anything like it. He was so strong, and I—" His breath caught in his throat.
Canada didn't understand. "Why are you telling me this?" He whispered. He didn't want to hear about how his proud, strong brother had been hunted down like some sort of animal—
"When I came around that corner, and saw him, standing there, I—" Devon paused again, clenching and unclenching the napkin that had, at some point, found its way into his hands. "He was so strong. I didn't—couldn't—understand him. He wasn't someone you hunt. He wasn't just someone, he was…" The crumpled napkin fell from his fingers. "He was…it may sound completely…insane, but…it felt like he was everyone, and everything. I don't understand—I didn't understand—" He trailed off. "I still don't. I think I never will. But I regret shooting him."
The country stared at the agent; this man who had shot Alfred—yet he also seemed so remorseful, so young…
Canada had never been thrown completely off guard before. Sure, he'd been stunned before, or been very surprised, but he'd never been shocked into stillness. He'd come to expect craziness and the like from other countries—when most of one's compatriots were at least a couple centuries old, you kind of expected everyone to be certifiably insane. However, he'd never been completely speechless, robbed of all thought and emotion. He just sat there and stared, trying to think of something—anything—to say.
Whichever country said that citizens were simple creatures, far inferior to their own kind, had never met an American.
America blinked at the ceiling.
His head hurt. His thought process was simple, in single-idea sentences.
Where was he? He was lying down. The bed was uncomfortable. He was hungry. He needed hamburgers. No, that was not what he should have been thinking about. He was wondering where he was. It was too bright to think. No, it wasn't too bright to think, it was too white to think. Heh. White and bright rhymed. He should be a poet. Oh yeah, he was a poet, wasn't he? Him and Shelly. They'd made…a book. Hadn't they? No. It was all Shelly's. They didn't put his name on the cover. But he got to choose the pictures. That was cool. The sidewalk ended. But sidewalks didn't end, because the earth was round. Where on earth was he?
Somewhere in Washington. Not Washington DC, just Washington—he didn't know why England kept mixing them up. Actually, it kind of seemed as though he were doing that on purpose. Not that the European country had ever been to Washington. But he himself was in Washington. He could definitely feel that. And…the room was a bright white—he could tell that, even from the inside of his eyelids. There was something about white you couldn't mistake, even if you were in complete blackness. If the walls were white, you could always, always tell. At least, America could always tell. When he'd mentioned that to Canada, his brother had given him a long, mystified stare, before shaking his head and saying, "You're something else, Al, you really are."
America's brow furrowed. He had a feeling he was forgetting something important.
Why was he here? And where was he, really?
Curiously he began sifting through his memories, which were still slightly scattered, and kept slipping through his metaphorical fingers annoyingly.
He was…going to visit his president. Yes. That's right; his new president was a psychopath. And…Lucy. Luce. Lucille. She was smiling at him. She looked so tired. So, so tired. The days had been rough on her. He offered to take her tray. She didn't want to give it to him—she had such a strong work ethic. She was a single mother. She was working hard to take care of her son. But she was tired, so she gave him the tray.
The president. He was smiling…smirking. He was smirking at Alfred. Because he was a master of deception. They both were. The president was smiling at him, and he had listened patiently as the country had explained who he was. And then the president had gotten all overlord-domination on him…and the offer. The sweet, tempting offer, which America had been this close to accepting. But then he'd refused it, because he had morals. And then…
The tranquilizer.
Oh God.
Oh God.
You don't know how tempted I was to post an April Fools thing. Fortunately, though, I'm nicer than that.
America awakens. YAY.
Reviews:
Dreamer of Stars: We'll see what happens to America-but I do get a lot meaner. Hehe. Thanks!
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IceEckos12