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.
Russia dived under the table when he heard explosion, curling up into a ball as the explosion shook the air. He tamped down the panic beginning to well up in his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for it to pass.
Ever since the Cold War, he'd been trained to get somewhere safe when he saw a bright flash of light, in case of an atomic bomb. And though countries were mostly immortal, Russia did not want to know what would happen to him if he got in the way of a nuclear blast.
But this bomb obviously wasn't an atomic bomb—not even half the size of the monstrous explosion Russia had once tested in the middle of his barren country. But those bombs—those atom bombs had never touched civilization, never gone farther than the desolate wasteland he called home. No, this bomb was something much more significant—much worse than anything like that.
It had just blown up the Supreme Court Building. And though Russia didn't know if court was in session today…there were probably still people inside!
Trying to shake off his old wartime habits, Russia slowly crawled out from underneath the wooden shelter and stood up. Hunched over ever-so-slightly, he stalked over to the window and looked out, judging the distance between the ground and the ledge—it was two stories, nothing he couldn't handle (He wasn't old; he still had perfectly good knees). Russia flipped one end of his scarf over his shoulder, and jumped over the sill, angling himself so he'd be able to roll once he hit the grass below—just because his knees were still fine didn't mean he could go jumping off high places whenever he felt like it.
Russia landed his jump cleanly, going into a perfect roll and coming up running, quickly eating up the pavement with his long, loping stride. People around him were screaming in panic, running around like headless chickens as they tried to figure out what was going on. A couple people—the smarter people—were on their phones, their fingers in their opposite ears to block the noise of fellow citizens. Some were just standing there, staring in shock at the burning shell of a building, and a few brave (or stupidly heroic) souls—like Russia himself—were running towards the blaze, whether to get pictures on their phones or to help anyone trapped inside, he didn't know.
It was only a block or two to the Supreme Court building, but with his long strides it took only a few seconds. He usually got some odd looks from the population, due to his size and his attire, but people had better things to worry about than a giant with a scarf running helter-skelter through the streets. Thankfully, people left him to his business, so when he pushed through the crowd of people already gathered around the blaze, no one tried to stop him.
Even though the fire was several feet away from him, he still felt its hungry burn on his skin. Wincing in distaste—he'd always hated heat—Russia began pulling up his scarf to wrap around it around his face, completely covering his mouth and nose—not only was his scarf a great comfort to him, it was an excellent filter. Then, he took several deep breaths through his nose, puffed the air out through his mouth, inhaled one last time, before running headfirst into the flames.
Ignoring the shouts of the crowd around him—"What the hell are you doing, you crazy bastard?!"—Russia leapt over the flaming rubble and into hell.
Immediately he was met with intense heat nearly burning through his coat, heating his cool hair. He could hear soft hissing noises—the fire coming into contact with his chilly skin. Ignoring the sound and sensation of being surrounded by fire, he began striding through the wreckage, keeping his ears and eyes open for anyone in the rubble.
So far, he couldn't see anyone, but the damage to a once beautiful building made him want to cry. Whoever had exploded it had done a very good job—there was almost nothing left standing, just a couple very sturdy, stubborn poles poking up every once and a while. It was highly doubtful that there would be any survivors at all, but still, he had to try. Had to try to…
Had to try and be the hero.
Crap. Now he couldn't make fun of America any more.
Glad that he didn't have to reach up and adjust his scarf—it was very trusty and didn't move easily—Russia kept looking, kicking at the rocks and the flaming wreckage the explosion had left behind.
As he was reaching for a beam lying in front of him, he saw it—a body.
And it made him want to throw up.
He had been in war before, had seen stuff of horrors—a million people, all starving and diseased and…and—had seen the damage people could cause to each other—a million people, mutilated and riddled with bullet holes and covered in scars—and he should know exactly how to handle something like this…but still. It was disgusting, horrific…
The body was charred to a blackened husk, its mouth opened slightly in a silent scream. Its clothes had all been burnt off, and you couldn't even tell what its gender was anymore. He didn't actually know if he could smell the smell of burning flesh, but he knew it well enough to imagine it. Its hair was still burning, ever-so-slowly losing any bit of unique features it had had left.
How could people do this to each other? He thought numbly, stepping over the corpse in a sort of detached coldness. Why would anyone think that this is a good idea?
You used to do this to people for fun. You're getting sick because you remember what you did.
I…I did terrible things. But I am past that now.
So you say. But once a criminal, always a criminal. And you know it.
If that were the case, then all of the countries would be mass-murderers.
You all already are, dumbass.
He had no response to that.
But he kept moving, kept kicking at the rubble, kept working through the broken remains…and he found more bodies, more people burnt to a blackened, shrunken…thing. Something that had been human, but now resembled nothing of the sort.
Russia shuddered. He hated massacres.
Trying not to focus on the bodies he kept finding, Russia slowly made his way to the room where court usually convened—he'd never actually been in the room before, but he'd seen enough maps and read enough books to know that general layout of the building (and, though he'd never admit to it, he'd memorized the layout of every important building in America during the Cold War. Hey, he was very sure America had done exactly the same thing!).
But still, reading about a building and being inside a building were two different things. Having never been inside said building and going into it when it is currently a smear on the ground is also a very different thing—Russia kept having to stop and regain his bearings.
Finally, he reached what had once been the magnificent court room. He'd seen so many pictures of the beautiful area, he felt as though he knew every inch of the place. But now…
It was obvious that this was where the bomb had been planted. The room was now completely demolished, the tell-tale signs of a bomb explosion on the floor, leading to a point in the exact center of the room. Anyone else wouldn't have noticed it, but Russia was a nation, and had seen more explosions than he really needed to see.
Slowly Russia knelt down, and brushed aside some rubble. There, in the center of the floor, was a shell, one that had violently ripped itself open. It was obviously much bigger, though, because when his sharp violet eyes searched the room, they landed on other large pieces of the mysterious bomb. Carefully Russia reached down and closed his fingers around the jagged-edged piece of metal that had just held the thing that had killed so many people.
And court had been in session that day. Definitely.
God, he didn't think he could stand the sight of any more dead bodies. He needed out of this place, now.
Russia quickly got to his feet, pocketing the piece of bomb he'd found, thinking he'd search for the instigator as soon as he got out of this terrible, blazing place. Actually, now that he thought about it, this seemed too much like hell for comfort—raging flames, hungrily snapping at his heels, the sight of dead bodies everywhere.
Russia's breath began coming in rasping pants, eyes widening fearfully. Suddenly, he was aware that he was being suffocated, the scarf around his face choking him off from the air around him. He needed to get out of this building right now, or he might go completely insane.
Stumbling blindly away from the blazing courtroom, Russia did his best to keep his fluctuating emotions under control as he tried to get away from his demons. Distantly he realized he was hyperventilating, and that he should probably stop because even though his trusty scarf kept most of the smoke out of his lungs, he was still sucking in some of the deadly gas. However, his panicked mind was keeping him from doing anything more than stumble away from whatever was scaring him so. And now, he was seeing things jumping out at him—shadows from his past, people with swords grinning down at him, might General Winter putting his chilly hands on Russia' shoulders, a sudden numbness spreading all around his body—
"Hold on, big guy. I've got you."
Russia looked down, through his past demons and his fears, and saw two very bushy eyebrows and two very green eyes looking up at him. Dimly he felt himself being pulled up—when had he fallen?—and stared wide-eyed at the little nation currently helping him get to his feet. Russia let himself get pulled up, and then shook off England's hold, only to stumble again as a wave of dizziness hit him. The tiny nation jumped out and managed to keep him from toppling over, but it obviously wasn't easy.
"Dammit, Russia! We don't have time for your pride; we need to get out of here!" England's voice was slightly muffled by the shirt wrapped around the lower part of his face, but it was still intelligible. Then, he muttered something to himself, which Russia couldn't quite make out but sounded suspiciously like, "What the hell have you been eating?"
"Lots and lots of vodka, little friend." Russia muttered back, straightening up as best he could to take some of the weight off the little island nation. However, he had learned his lesson; he didn't try to shake England off, instead reluctantly allowing himself to be led away from the blaze, not really paying attention to where they were going.
"Francis, help me!" Russia heard England shout, and smiled briefly. The pair was like an old married couple; always around each other, always arguing, but always relying on each other for one thing or another. Dimly he heard France's soft, elegant voice—"Mon dieu, what is Russia doing here?"—and another set of hands helping slow his trip to the ground.
"I-I'll get some water!" A soft, stuttering voice cried, and seconds later someone was running away from them at a speedy pace.
Russia felt slightly perplexed. He recognized that voice, but he couldn't quite recall where…the tone reminded him vaguely of America, but a niggling voice in his head told him that America was in custody, and the voice was too quiet to possibly be the over-exuberant nation. I think…didn't he have a brother? Russia's felt slightly dizzy, and pulling stuff from his fuzzy memory was almost impossible. Wasn't it…Canada? Yes, that's right…that big landmass above America. The image of a soft-spoken not-quite-a-man with violet eyes popped into his head. Matthew. Canada! How could I have forgotten?
He was ripped from his train of thoughts by a warm hand pressing itself to his forehead, and an insisting voice calling his name. "Russia? Russia? Please don't pass out on me now, Russia!" The warm hand removed itself from his forehead, and began patting his cheek annoyingly. "C'mon, wake up!"
Russia pushed the hand away and muttered, "I'm fine. I'm fine. There is no need to shout."
"I can't understand Russian." England's voice was slightly panicked, obviously worried at seeing the sight of the once frightening nation so out of it. "Please speak English."
Their brief conversation was interrupted by the sound of soft footsteps and panting breaths. "I got the water." Canada gasped, and Russia turned his dull gaze onto the not-quite-a-man-shaped-blob.
"Good." England said, and there was a slight pause—
Before Russia's disoriented state was rudely brought into sudden clarity by a splash of cold water.
"What the hell? Son of a bitch!" Russia shrieked, so surprised and angry that he didn't bother to switch to English so the others could understand, reaching back for his trusty spigot, crab-walking backwards away from them. "I should have your head for that, you vile—"
"Ivan, calm down!" England shouted, backing away from the suddenly violent country. That was when Russia realized that he was surrounded by many other people, and all of them were staring at him as though he were a wild animal, about to attack them.
He sighed, and put his arm back down, instead going to rub the water tiredly off his face, slumping onto the ground. Even though he was loathe to admit it, he had sort of needed that. Now that he had calmed down enough to think straight, he felt mildly embarrassed about his outburst. In his quiet, careful English, he said, "I am sorry, E—Arthur." Russia blushed furiously when he realized he'd almost said England's identity in the middle of the street; the little nation's eyes were wide with horror at his near slip. He must've been woozier than he'd originally thought. "I was disoriented from the fire and did not expect anyone to come for me. And the rest of you, for scaring you."
Canada knelt down next to Russia, violet eyes shy and kind. "We came here as soon as we heard the explosion." He said in an undertone. "We were at Al's apartment—it's only a mile away, so we all ran."
Russia nodded at the explanation. He had been wondering what the other countries were doing here. But then, Canada glanced up and stepped aside; he'd seen someone approaching, obviously wanting to talk to Russia.
A tall tanned woman with black hair and brown eyes stood in front of him, eyes wide. She seemed to be the only civilian not completely terrified of him, and in one hand she was holding onto an adorable little boy with curly brown hair and hazel-green eyes. "It's fine. Really. It was quite brave of you, actually. Is there anything I can get you?"
Surprised at the woman's boldness, Russia just blinked his wide violet eyes at her, the others in the crowd looking just as surprised as her. If Russia wasn't so stunned himself, he would've laughed at England—his jaw was on the floor.
"Here, I have some cookies in my pocket. You like chocolate chip, don't you?" The woman dug around in her purse, and withdrew a plastic bag with a few delicious looking chocolate chip cookies inside. "I made them this morning. They may not taste very good," She cracked the bag and took out one, "But it's the thought that counts, right?"
Russia dazedly accepted the cookie with his soot-covered hands, and just stared at it dumbly for a second. Finally, he raised his head to look up at her. "Who are you?"
"Lucille." She said, rubbing her nose. Then, without being prompted, she shoved the little boy hiding behind her legs forward. "This is Damian. Isn't it, Dami?"
Damian blushed, still clinging to his mother's skirt, and muttered a shy greeting.
Russia waved numbly, still not quite out of his shock.
Lucille wasn't one to hesitate, or dawdle. She patted her son on the top of the head, and then looked eagerly at Russia. "Were there any survivors?"
A sudden hush fell over the crowd, an expectant silence that made the air so heavy it was almost tangible. Every single one of them was silent, attentive, staring straight into Russia's frozen expression. Even the countries—Canada, France, England—were watching him, boring into him with their steady eyes.
Russia did not want to be the one to tell them that there was no one left alive. But there was no one else—the firefighters, police, and ambulances had only just arrived, their sirens piercing through the air. And people didn't want answers almost a day later, because the police always kept their mouths shut, and the only time they learned anything was when the press had time to get a hold of the scene.
Slowly, Russia closed his eyes and shook his head, the images of the dead bodies flashing through his head. "I don't…everyone I saw was dead. The bomb was planted in the court room. There were no survivors."
His words rang throughout the group, and there was a hushed silence that could only by created by pure shock.
Then the tense silence was filled with gasps of horror, people starting to cry in fear. Someone shouted, "But court was in session today!", and this only fueled the terrified whispers. England, Canada and France all stared at him, open-mouthed. Canada's violet eyes began to fill with tears, while England began shaking his head in denial and France just looking plain shocked. Lucille, still sitting in front of him, Damian held close to her with one arm, stared at him in horrified disbelief, her mouth dropped ever so slightly. She tightened her grip around Damian, and nodded, closing her mouth so her lips were pressed together in a thin line.
The little boy stared up at her, confused. "Mommy, what's going on?" He asked in his innocent voice, big hazel eyes looking into her brown ones. Lucille slowly turned around to face Damian and hugged him, whispering into his hair. Feeling as though he was witnessing a very private moment, Russia turned his head away, embarrassed. But he still managed to overhear some of her soothing words.
"It's going to be okay, Damian…It's going to be okay…" Her breath choked in her throat, and he did his best to tune her out without actually going to plug his ears. But then he heard it—so quiet that it was almost intelligible. "…Alfred…"
Russia straightened up, ignoring England's questioning look, and reached out to tap Lucille's shoulder, before stopping. He honestly didn't want to interrupt this heart-warming moment, but if she actually knew Alfred, then maybe…
Maybe she knew what had happened to him.
Stealing his resolve, Russia reached out and tapped her shoulder, feeling slightly uncomfortable as she turned her tear-stained face to look at him. Damian peered over her shoulder, staring at Ivan with his innocent hazel eyes curiously. Those eyes gave him enough resolve to get past his awkwardness and speak. After all, if they found America, he could help calm down the populace and raise spirits immensely.
"Miss Lucille," He began quietly, paused, and restarted. "Miss Lucille, would you happen to know a man named Alfred F. Jones?"
England turned around, obviously having heard Russia. France and Canada didn't notice, still trapped in their shock. He raised his enormous eyebrows, waiting for a response.
She blinked in surprise, and nodded very slowly, eyes wide with an emotion Russia couldn't place.
"When was the last time you saw him?" He asked in an undertone, leaning in to keep their conversation a secret from prying ears. Though he didn't much think anyone was listening; they were all too busy calling people, crying, or doing other things grieving or panicking people did.
Lucille looked away, nibbling her lip with indecision. Russia waited patiently as she glanced down at her son again, then out at the burning shell of the Supreme Court building, and then back at Russia. Finally, she asked, "What was Alfred to you?"
"We fought in a war together." Was his half-amused response. The thought nearly made him laugh—war indeed. But seriously, he didn't quite know what to call America, considering their odd relationship—half contempt, half respect—but he figured that in the end he trusted America enough to call him…well, a comrade, at the very least. And that was good enough for him.
Lucille looked mildly surprised. "I see." She murmured. Glancing back down at Damian, she narrowed her eyes. With a newfound sense of determination, she abruptly rose to her feet. "Is there a place where we can talk? Privately?"
"You can come to our friend's house." England butted in gently, smiling reassuringly at her. "I would like to know what happened to Alfred as well, if you don't mind. And I'm sure Francis and Alfred's brother would like to know what happened, too."
France and Canada were shaken out of their stupors by the sound of their names.
The pair listened quietly as England explained that Lucille knew something about America, and that they were bringing her back to the apartment so they could talk privately. Canada seemed to accept this explanation readily enough, though he looked a little apprehensive about something. However when he opened his mouth to try and speak, he was cut off by France's voice.
"But what about those two detectives we left at the house—Bea and Devon, I believe?"
England's eyebrows bunched together—he hadn't thought of that. As soon as the explosion had happened, he'd shouted at the pair to stay in the house while they went to go and see what happened, but he hadn't actually stayed to see if they had listened. It was highly probably that they hadn't; after all, whenever you hear an explosion, there is the undeniable curiosity to see what happened, especially if it's in a nation's capital. He wouldn't be surprised if they were nearly here now. Maybe in the commotion they could slip by the pair…
"Matthew." England said, looking expectantly at the Canadian. He flinched, and nodded. "You know DC better than anyone—save Alfred, of course." The younger North American brother conceded to this statement with a graceful nod. "Do you know any back roads that can take us to Alfred's house? I don't know—any shortcuts?"
"You can be quite the devious man, Angleterre." France said fondly, while Russia smiled happily (insert 'creepily') from where he still sat on the ground. This, of course, prevented Canada from responding. "I think it is quite sexy. You wouldn't happen to—"
"Bite me." England growled back, which was a complete mistake. France's face split into a perverted smile.
"Gladly."
"I didn't mean it like that—you frog!"
Canada sighed tiredly at the bickering couple, suddenly feeling like a child whose parents never stopped arguing. He leaned back ever-so-slightly—
And nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt something cold pressing onto his shoulder. Scrambling back, he couldn't decide whether to sigh in relief or to start shrieking when he realized it was Russia. "W-W-When did y-you get over there?"
The Leviathan did not respond, just smiled. "You are our leader, da? So lead."
Lucille suddenly worried for her and her child's sanity.
"I don't know what's wrong with him!" Alistair shouted, trying to help the other people in the room hold the screaming patient down. And 'trying' was the word for it—anyone who got too close to America's thrashing limbs was almost always thrown against the wall by his powerful swing. "One minute he was perfectly fine, the next he was—screaming, and clutching his heart in pain!"
Doctor Shay leaned against the wall fearfully, watching the men in their group battling it out with the nation. "Do you know if there is something wrong with his heart?"
Dr. Von Arx responded this time, his silver-blonde hair plastered against his skull, a light bruise forming on his cheek where he'd been clipped with America's flailing hand. His English wasn't as good as the others—he had learned his dialect from movies and books, and had never really used it. "We—cannot get near—" He broke off, searching for the word. "Close enough to touch him! This is madness!"
'This is madness' came out the clearest, because it was a line from his favorite movie. The Swiss transfer said it often: whenever they discovered something incredible, whenever something terrible happened…if Alistair had a free hand, he would have smacked the younger scientist for throwing movie lines around so blithely, especially in a situation like this.
The only person who was studiously focusing on the task at hand was Dr. Koliabskaia. The Russian was tall, menacing, and easily the strongest person in the room. However he wasn't any match for America—when he finally managed to grab the country's arm, he was flung halfway across the floor.
"What can we do?" Doctor Shay asked, her analytical mind searching for the answer, but finding none. The American had seemed friendly enough (if not a little angry at being captured for use as a lab rat), but now she wondered if it was just a façade, that he was just waiting for some opportunity to start freaking out. "What about a tranquilizer?"
"They do not work on him." Alistair responded, his eyes gleaming with sudden enthusiasm. "His immune system is incredible—after just three weeks he managed to get used to enough anesthesia to kill a horse."
"Focus." Dr. Koliabskaia growled, noticing that Alistair was getting distracted. He didn't need to say anything else—Alistair was scared of the tall scientist, and that one word was enough to make him quake in his shiny black boots.
"I know what's wrong!"
Dr. Ziegel burst into the room, a laptop in one hand. He completely ignored America, who had stopped screaming and flailing and was now whimpering softly, in favor of staring at the other scientists, looking a little terrified—they were all staring at him with a strange intensity. The little black-haired scientist gulped and blushed, obviously a little uncomfortable with the attention, and began to shrink into himself, stage-fright taking away the words he had to say.
Alistair was the one to act on this. "Dr. Ziegel, if you please. I think we would all like to know what it going on."
Turning an even brighter red, the scientist fumbled with the laptop and managed to get the screen open. Finally sparing America a glance, he placed the computer on the end of the metal bed (there was plenty of room—the American had curled in on himself). Then, Ziegel opened the internet to a page that was streaming news live.
The burning shell of the Supreme Court Building greeted them.
Doctor Shay gasped loudly, her blue eyes wide with shock and horror. Von Arx shut his eyes and his head lowered in a silent oath. Alistair's eyes widened slightly, and his jaw dropped. Koliabskaia was the only one who didn't react, just watched with unusually cold, stony eyes.
"…at 2:39 today, the Supreme Court Building in Washington DC exploded. No one knows what caused the explosion; the National Guard…"
"Mon dieu…" Doctor Shay whispered, suddenly aware of America's muted sobs. "Do you think that this is what caused it?"
"There…is no—" Von Arx stumbled over his words. "Other explanation."
America suddenly let out another scream, his voice shattering the scientist's eardrums. Ziegel had to swiftly pick up his laptop to keep it from getting kicked off the metal table as the nation started thrashing widely around again, mouth open wide. His voice, cracked and dry from his earlier screaming and lack of water, eventually petered off into nothing, but America still kept his mouth open—which was perhaps even worse than the shrieks. A silent scream.
The other scientist's backed away from the kicking and silent-screaming nation, confused once more by America's behavior. Only Ziegel knew what was going on, because he was staring once again at the screen in fear.
"…there appear to be no survivors. A brave man—wait, what?" The reporter held his hand up to his earpiece, staring at the ceiling. His eyes slowly widened with horror as he listened. "No, it's not…what? The…both of them? That's not—" He broke off and nodded once, face grim. Then he turned his eyes back to the camera. "Ladies and gentlemen, I am very sorry. Citizens of Washington DC, I urge you to go back to your homes. Please find a safe place, and do not come out until you are sure it's safe. I repeat, please find a safe place." He took a deep breath. "I have just recently been informed that the Library of Congress and the Capitol Building have just exploded.. Washington DC is under attack!"
Hey guys! Me again. I know its kind of a late update, but I was at a really cool camp for three days-well worth the missed update! Anyway, this is where the story really starts to kick up. Things are going down, and they are going down fast and hard. Haha no innuendo intended. I'm afraid our heroes are, at the moment, up shit creek.
Anyway, if you see any mistakes or something, let me know. I will change it. Don't let it just sit there! I appreciate the help!
Now, on to reviews:
Dreamer of Stars: England is the brains of the group, besides that one guy I can't remember the name of. Hehe. Anyway, I always try and add depth to the characters I write, because they're real people, not just puppets. Hope you enjoyed the most recent update :)
Undetermined Hope: Why thank you! I put a lot of hard work into this, so I appreciate when people like it ^^.
The Rambler: No, no! Yelling is fine! Come back, I have cookies! Thank you so much for your review :) hopefully I'll get more like yours soon.
Anyway, thanks!
IceEckos12
P.S. I'm sorry if I'm acting a little dopey right now something really good happened in my personal life and I'm extremely excited right now.