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
"He tore through those straps like they were made of paper. Are you sure that these will hold him?"
Dr. Koliabskaia glanced over at Shay and narrowed his eyes. Unconcerned, she stared right back, expression calm and collected. He held her gaze for a few more seconds, before shrugging and turning back to the titanium alloy cuffs on the table in front of him. "I do not know. He is much stronger than we originally assumed…but I do hope that these will hold him. They were very expensive."
"What did Ziegel do that…" Dr. Von Arx paused, searching for the right term. "Offended him so? The subject has…always seemed…"Again, he began fumbling with the English words, face screwed up in concentration.
"The word you are looking for, Von Arx, is passive. Unusually optimistic, despite his situation. And I do not know." Alistair said absentmindedly, then sighed and mournfully nudged the remains of what had once been some expensive, high-quality straps. "Do you think we can reuse these? It would be a ridiculous waste of money if we did not…"
Shay answered on instinct, forgetting for just a second that this was her archrival and she was supposed to hate him with a passion. "I don't see why not." Then she blinked in surprise, mouth snapping shut with a soft click. Alistair looked equally surprised, his grey-blue eyes widening slightly—though Shay could not see it. They were facing away from each other.
Koliabskaia glanced at Von Arx, who caught the Russian's eye with a deadpan expression on his face. The taller man rolled his eyes, and the Swiss man nodded minutely. Translation: Oh -my-God-it-is-so-obvious-that-those-two-are-in-love-I-just-wish-they'd-stop-denying-it-and-make-out-already.
Well, not exactly. Von Arx didn't know enough English to construct a sentence like that without pausing to think about it, Koliabskaia would never say a sentence that long, and neither of them liked English slang very much. But that was the general idea.
Alistair curled his fingers on the table, jaw working ever so slightly. Then, he said in an angry tone—though it seemed halfhearted—"I wasn't talking to you."
Shay tilted her chin higher into the air and snorted. "I simply wanted to give our other more honorable coworkers a more secure state of mind. Who ever said I answered for you?"
And, as though agreeing with each other in some odd way, the two returned to what they were going without protest. Again, Koliabskaia and Von Arx rolled their eyes, and returned to their jobs as well.
After a few minutes of complete silence, Alistair spoke up again, voice soft and worried. "Ziegel seemed…very shaken, after he was nearly killed by America. Did anyone check to make sure he was okay?"
It was a well-known fact that the only person Alistair seemed to be close to—besides Shay, of course—was Ziegel. The little American scientist had wormed his way into the older man's heart, made him smile again, which was something that had not happened for a very long time. There was something about his childish ways that made Alistair very protective of him; he had even come to consider himself a second father to Ziegel, and he didn't throw feelings around like that lightly.
Even so, it still surprised some people that he could tear himself away from his work long enough to care. Shay herself gave Alistair an odd look, her expression unreadable as she stared at the man. Koliabskaia just sort of blinked his big grey eyes, but gave no other outward reaction. Von Arx stared at the German in shock, mouth open slightly. Alistair simply ignored their less than welcome reactions and continued to stare at everyone, lips thin and eyes narrowed.
"I do not think so." Koliabskaia interjected smoothly into the awkward silence after he noticed that his other two colleagues weren't going to answer. "Why don't you go check on him? We are not all that busy here. It is nothing we cannot handle."
Alistair stared at the Russian as though he was absolutely insane. "Are you mad? Leave my research? No." (The others rolled their eyes at this; he never changed) "I shall call someone and have them check up on him. He should be fine."
Meanwhile, Ziegel was not fine.
He was worried. He had heard many stories about the human of the country America; that he was stupid, that he was easy to manipulate, that he was the least intimidating country out there, an idiotic buffoon. This had definitely not been the case. For a split second—when America had gone for his neck—Ziegel had been so frightened, a scream rising in the back of his throat. Not because he was being attacked by a superpower who had just ripped up their strongest restraints, but because he had seen something primal and ancient and terrifying in America's eyes; the kind you only see when family is threatened. The animalistic rage in the country's eyes…that had been absolutely petrifying, and it was something you couldn't, shouldn't contain, a creature that was always meant to be free. And now…he was getting this sensation in his gut, like he had just wronged someone who had trusted him dearly. He knew that he shouldn't be feeling something like this—America had never trusted him, that was obvious. It was almost instinctive, this guilt.
Ziegel curled his fingers over his heart, staring into the clean, organized space that was his desk, trying to make sense of what was going on. Finally he said, "I only did what I needed to do. This is for the good of our research. There's nothing I should have done differently."
Then he sighed and began rubbing his temples, trying to think of something other than the country sitting passively in the room across the building. I'm very tired. His mind began, making small talk with himself. I stayed up all night watching the news, just making sure that there weren't going to be any more attacks. That was quite frightening; I wonder who did it…who would be crazy enough to bomb Washington DC?
Speaking of the news…
Ziegel swiveled his chair to the side, tapping his finger on the wooden desk beside him, using the other hand to open up the laptop. The news was still streaming live from DC, giving updates on the casualties, injuries, and so on and so forth. So far over a hundred people had died, and more were still being dug up from the rubble in the buildings. He ignored the announcement about the president coming to make a statement later that afternoon, and unmuted the sound. After a few seconds of listening, he swiveled around to his personal coffee machine and pressed the 'on' button.
"…devastated…"
His head bobbed slightly up and down to a tune he was humming as he opened up the top of the coffee machine and inserted his favorite roast.
"…terrorist connections…"
As he waited for his sweet elixir of life to finish, Ziegel glanced over at the picture on his screen—
And leaned forwards in shock as he saw it.
There in the background, falling as though in slow motion, was something fat, long, and pointed. Ziegel's eyes tracked its descent, which was quite fast, but it seemed like hours that the bomb fell; he reacted in the exact same way, jumping up from the chair and pushing it to the ground with the back of his knees, slamming his hands on the desk—which was all very fast, but to him it felt as though he couldn't move fast enough.
He flinched when the bomb disappeared and time sped up again. His eyes were glued to the screen in horror as the image shook violently and the newscaster flinched, covering his head with his arm. There were screams—shouts—and then another bomb dropped onto Washington D.C.
A scream echoed throughout the wing.
Ziegel whipped around and flew out of his office just in time to miss the third bomb that crashed to the ground.
England jerked awake when something exploded in his ear.
He rolled until his back slammed into something—the couch, if he guessed correctly—and pressed his hands over his head. He had completely forgotten about the War raging above his head, bombs raining over his beloved city every day. His fingers clenched over his heart in preparation for the pain he was about to feel, gritting his teeth in pain and fear. This Blitz…damn Krauts!
The bomb shelter. Alfred had come over one day and built him a bomb shelter, usually beaming face somber and morose—because he knew that he should be helping. Hell, he wants to fight. England smirked. His president isn't willing to go to war, but Alfred wants nothing more than to get on the front lines and annihilate the Germans. But America had been helping England as much as he could on the side —and that included the sturdy little bomb shelter America had built, the one with the tiny American flag painted on the inside.
He needed to go out and save his people. Some of them were probably huddled in the streets, trying not to get bombed. Wearily his lids rose a bit, emerald shards glittering in the shadows.
Emerald green met panicking violet.
"Canada." He gasped out. When had Canada gotten here? But still, he was in danger! They needed to get to the shelter immediately. "We need to get to the bomb shelters. We're not safe here."
The house rocked when a bomb exploded nearby. The two of them flinched.
After he recovered, Canada reached forwards and gripped England's shoulders. "Arthur." He said firmly, though it could barely hear it around the ringing in their ears. "We need to get going. This isn't London, we're in Washington DC."
"We're not in America." Arthur muttered. "Alfred is not getting bombed. This is the Blitz, Matthew, don't you understand?" He suddenly looked up to squint at Canada. "Did you nearly get bombed? Do you have a concussion?"
Canada recoiled, staring at England in shock as though he had said something that was completely illogical. The younger country looked around, biting his lip, looking like he was about to cry, before he rose to his feet—rocked with another explosion—and scurried across the room. England pushed himself up to follow Canada—it was too dangerous to be walking around like that—when he realized that he wasn't in his home.
Soft fabric couch. Several easy chairs. Cream colored walls. Oak shelves on one wall, holding several things that looked breakable—though Canada had obviously moved them to the floor so they wouldn't fall. Suddenly, England was in the present again. It's 2020, not 1940. England jumped to his feet, back hunched, and looked around.
France was standing worriedly next to Canada, who was talking softly to Lucille. The mortal was huddled in a corner, what looked like tear-tracks streaking down her face. However she had a determined look on her face, and wasn't panicking all that badly. England couldn't see Damien—wait, I think that might be him…the little boy had been hidden in his mother's arms as she protected him.
Now where is Russia? He wondered, looking around for the tall, frigid cold country. He's had a worse time with stuff like this than I have…it would make sense that he would try to get under something—a desk or a table or something, trapped in his own nightmares like I was…There was only one thing in this room big enough to house Russia under it; the desk in the corner. England crouched so low he was practically crawling and walked as quickly as he could over to there, and sure enough Russia was huddled in a little ball under it, hands tight over his ears, eyes squeezed shut.
"Russia." England gently touched Russia's hand, who flinched back, his closed eyes clenching tighter with fear. As gently as he could, England pressed his hands to Russia's and pried them away from the taller nation's ears. Now that the Russian could hear him, England began talking in a low, hurried voice. "We're in Washington DC, we need to go. If we don't Lucille and Damien will die. We need to get out of Washington DC."
England kept repeating this to the stricken country, who looked very disbelieving and kept shaking his head, denying England's words, sure he was trapped in a nightmare. England was about ready to give up and leave him behind—Russia could take care of himself, that was for certain—when France came up behind him, looking around nervously.
"Angleterre." He murmured, startling England. "We must get going. How is le russe?"
England sat back on his heels and sighed. "He won't listen to me. We might have to leave him behind." Noticing France's disbelieving look, he snorted and rolled his eyes. "He can take care of himself, he doesn't even like us."
There was a small shriek when a bomb dropped unpleasantly close to the apartment. The countries dropped to the floor and covered their heads—all except for Russia. The tall country's eyes flew open at the sound of the scream, waking him from his day terrors. He took a second to control his emotions, and then like a ghost he slipped out from under the desk and rose to his full height, towering like a giant in the small room. He walked slowly across the room, and stopped to stand before Lucille and Damien, who were huddled together in a terrified ball. Canada was sitting next to them, hands covering his head.
The country simply stood there for several seconds, just staring at them; Lucille seemed to realize that there was someone standing in front of them, because she opened her eyes and looked up at Russia—and there was fear in his eyes. But not of him, or for herself; for her son, for the other countries, of the bombs—she was scared for all the right reasons.
Another explosion rocked the house, and Lucille broke eye contact and pressed her face into her son's curly-haired head.
Russia bent over and picked the both of them as though they were light as a feather, holding them tight against his chest. Then, he turned to the other countries, who were all lying on the floor, and began walking around nudging them with his foot. "Get up." He commanded to the now silent room; there was a small reprieve in the explosions. "We must get out of the United States. Something is going to happen, and we need to figure out what we're getting into before we get involved. I am positive we can make it to Canada in time."
They began rising to their feet, staring at Russia in bewilderment; just seconds before he had been huddled on the floor, more terrified than the rest of them. But now he was standing strong, holding Lucille and Damien in his hands, looking and acting like…
A hero.
"All right." England said, startling France and Canada. "I know someone nearby who owns a private airstrip nearby. He owes me a favor. We can make it before they escape, I think."
France stepped forwards, his face serious and solemn. "We can take my car, it is the fastest. I doubt anyone will care about the speed limit at a time like this."
"What if the roads are unusable?" Canada butted in, eyes wide with fear. However he was still doing his best to contribute.
"Then we run." England responded determinedly, narrowing his eyes. "We will get there in time. I will make sure that we do."
Russia turned around and began loping towards the door, and it took only a second for the large country's powerful kick to send the door flying down the stairs—though his movements were so smooth and precise he barely jostled his precious cargo. England followed close behind, eyes searching and weary, a small handgun clenched tightly in one hand. France was the next one out the door; he peered outside, face pinched with exhaustion. Canada brought up the rear, wielding a small knife and a gun.
He paused at the top of the stairs to look out at the blaze that had once been Washington DC...and reached out to steady himself on a railing, horrified at the sight.
People were screaming, and the air stank of heat, death and burned flesh. Several buildings were burning around them, the sky dark with giant metal birds that dropped raining fire on the panicked population. There was no answering fire, nothing to stop the bombs raining down from the sky—Canada didn't know why, he didn't really care, because my God there's so much death and Alfred—
Oh, America.
Canada was probably about to have a breakdown when he suddenly felt two soft, warm hands on his shoulders. He looked up to see France's sad blue eyes staring into his own violet ones.
"Mon petit Canada." He murmured, French gliding smoothly off his tongue. "America would want you to stay strong—for him. Please, we can mourn later, but for now we must press on."
Canada's eyes filled with tears, and ignoring the world around them—ignoring the bomb that dropped a block away, ignoring the earth-rattling rumble that accompanied it, he wrapped his arms around France. The older nation was so surprised he didn't react at first, and by the time he did Canada had already pulled away, a new determined expression on his face.
"Let's go." Canada said quietly, and walked down the stairs, not turning to look back at France, who followed him hesitantly, not sure whether the young nation would break down again or not. Judging by his hard, cold, dead expression—he would not.
"Come on!" England called from the car, waving them over. For a minute he watched them approach, and then got back into the driver's seat. Russia had already claimed shotgun, and he was leaning back in his seat, talking quietly to Lucille. Damien was still huddled in her lap, looked confused and frightened, tear tracks running down his face.
"Oh, Russia." France sighed. "I thought I told you that I had called shotgun."
The larger nation smiled as France and Canada slid into the back, eyes closed pleasantly. "First come, first serve."
Still grumbling, France crossed his arms over his chest and pouted, flinching when another explosion rocked his eardrums. As soon as his ears cleared, he leaned over to talk to Canada. "Are you alright?"
The young nation—who had been staring ahead at nothing since the ride, not even wincing when the explosion happened—turned to look at France. He was startled by Canada's apathy; his…emotionless stare.
"…I'm fine." He whispered, before looking straight ahead again.
Unconvinced, France reached out to touch the Canadian's shoulder—only to be stopped when the car swerved around an impression in the road.
"Sorry!" England shouted, only to make another on-a-dime turn, swearing enough to make a sailor blush.
Russia's smile never dimmed and his eyes never opened; the only sign that he had been affected by the crazy driving was the slight greenish tinge on his face. "England, comrade." He said through gritted teeth. "Do you think you could be a little more careful?" The sickly shade of his face deepened slightly as the swerved violently around a corner. "Please?"
"They're going to shut down the airports very soon, Russia." He grunted in response. "We just need a ride out of here. That's all. We'll fly to New York, Chicago—anywhere away from here. Something is going to happen in America, and the last thing we need is to be right in the middle of it. So yes, I need to be quick." The smile England sent Russia's way was slightly smug, as though he knew what was going on with the Russian and was enjoying it immensely.
Russia leaned back in the seat and groaned, holding his stomach. This was going to be a long ride.
For a bit the ride was exactly like this; England would make a tight turn, Russia would groan, and the passengers in the back seat would try not to get killed. There were a few close calls, but they turned out alright. For a moment it seemed as though everything would turn out alright, that they would make it out of the city with nothing but a couple bruises and a mildly sick Russia.
They had just left the city when a bomb exploded right in front of them.
There was a high-pitched scream, though the others could barely hear it around the melodious sound of crunching car. They rolled once—twice—the only thing they could comprehend was spinning; heat—the crunching of metal—more screams—
And then they stopped.
Warm liquid was running down Lucille's head; she felt dizzy, and disoriented, and couldn't quite focus on anything. Well, not until something moved in her arms, and a terrified little whimper broke through to her brain.
"Mommy?"
She ignored the blood running down her face to look at her son, trying to look unharmed and unaffected. This was slightly ruined by the red seeping down her face and the slightly dazed look in her eyes. "I'm alright, dear." She murmured, pressing her lips into his forehead. "Are you hurt anywhere?"
He lifted his arm, where a bruise was already forming. "Owie." He said unhappily, lip beginning to tremble.
She was about to respond with a relieved laugh and a kiss to make it all better, when she realized that the others in the car weren't talking. She blinked and began looking around the car—which had miraculously landed right-side up—trying to figure out what was going on.
Canada was conscious, his violet eyes staring dazedly into nothing; probably a concussion. There were cuts on his arm and his cheek, but he looked otherwise unharmed. France was also awake, except he was infinitely more alert than the other two in the back. He was slightly bruised and had cuts everywhere, but had obviously hadn't gotten caught in the worst of the blast. He was starting to unbuckle himself, obviously to check on the two in the front.
They were so much worse.
England had obviously fallen unconscious, blood trickling down the side of his head. There were shards of glass sticking out of his pale skin, bruises already starting to form along one side of his face. Russia wasn't much better, though he wasn't as bad as England; he was blinking, confused, and he was covered in small wounds and little slivers of glass. They had been in the front, and the whole windshield had been blown out; they had been caught in the face by it.
And, oddly enough, the car was still running.
Lucille and France seemed to realize this at the exact same time. They glanced at each other, talking quietly with their eyes—before France jumped out of the car. Lucille still had to take care of Damien, and she could also watch over the very dazed Canada.
France took charge and opened the door on Canada's side—it took him a second, it was stuck slightly—before he leapt over the catatonic man and jumped to the pavement, wobbling unsteadily. The Frenchmen took a moment to study the car, before he nodded slightly as though satisfied it would still take them to where they wanted to go. Then he opened the front—hesitated—and gingerly unbuckled Arthur, lifted him from his seat, and carried him towards the back.
France stared into England's unconscious face, a great sadness rising in his chest. England had never been this still before, this vulnerable—well, not for a very long time. It wasn't right, to see him like this—pale and wounded and helpless. France could've been groping him right now (though the Frenchman would never do something so…un-chivalrous) and England wouldn't have been able to do a thing about it—which was wrong on so many levels. France's very existence was based on his need to annoy England—and to see him so weak…
They needed to get out of America. Today.
France nudged Canada, trying to get him to respond—and was rewarded with a dazed, vacant stare. "Mon petit Matthew." He said, nudging the Canadian harder. "Help me get Angleterre into the back. We must drive quickly if we are to make it to the place on time."
He simply stared at France for a moment, as though he didn't understand the question—and then Lucille reached over Canada's lap and opened up her arms. France quickly placed England's shoulders on her hands, helping her support the Englishman's weight. That was when Canada realized what France wanted him to do, and he quickly began helping their job.
"Sorry." Canada muttered.
"It is fine." France smiled at the younger nation, putting his hand over the Canada's. "You are still disoriented. Get some rest."
He stared at the older nation for a moment, his eyes unusually intense, and then abruptly sat back and looked away—Lucille thought he might have muttered something like, 'I can still help.'
After making sure that England was laid out comfortably—though 'comfortably' had a little wiggle room, obviously, because Damien had decided that the Englishman's stomach was a much better seat than his mother's lap—France slammed the door and slid smoothly into the driver's seat. He glanced over at Russia—the tall pale nation was still disoriented, oblivious to his surroundings—and sighed, before pressing his foot down on the pedal. The car groaned unhappily, but complied.
The rest of the ride was relatively uneventful, and now that they were out of the DC city limits they left the bombs and the explosions behind and—luckily—the Brit had given France the directions to the private airstrip before he had gotten hit, just in case. England had woken up, and was currently in the backseat, quietly trying to recover from his brief unconsciousness. Russia had managed to focus again, and he was helping France get to there, though every few minutes he would shake his head, like a dog trying to shake off water. Canada also regained his concentration, and was playing with Damien, singing quietly in French.
France turned the wheel, and they rolled into a parking lot near a small, secluded building. He smiled and leaned back in his seat, running a hand tiredly through his hair. "We are here."
It took mere seconds for them all to get out of the car; England was slightly wobbly, and was leaning on Canada, though the young nation was supporting himself just as much as he was supporting England. Russia seemed mostly unaffected, though there was a wobble in the nation's usually graceful step. Lucille was the one who seemed the most stable—besides Damien, though the young boy was sitting happily atop Russia's giant shoulders—and was gently talking to Canada and England, trying to get them going.
It was slow going; England and Canada kept stopping, though they were getting better—after the first two times, though, Russia had swooped down and picked up England, ignoring the Brit's indignant yelp. After a minute of walking, though, England had stopped muttering angrily; they were making much better time.
The small building was cool, and filled with people; they all obviously had the same idea as the countries did. There was a lot of crying, and praying, and the general abandon of sanity. Once France had to lean down and help some poor soul who was nearly getting trampled by the amount of people in the place.
It was times like these that the countries were so happy they were more important than everyone else.
"Excuse me." Russia gently placed England back on the ground and reached over to touch the shoulder of the nearest person who looked like he worked there he saw, who looked tired and cranky at the lack of organization.
He turned to look at Russia, that annoyed look still on his face. "Yes?" He said shortly. "We're very busy, as you can see—"
The man paused and stared at the small group, eyes wide. Even when they were wounded and weak, the countries were quite formidable people—more like a pack of wolves that had just been in a fight. Their auras were exposed and raw because of their lack of control; it was impossible for the poor employee to not be absolutely terrified.
He flinched when the Russian reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an ID. "You see, we are important people." He smiled pleasantly. "We will be on the next airplane out of this place."
Sure, they countries felt a little bad flaunting their status. But frankly they did not care; though it may sound cold, they had seen people die a million times before, and they would see people die a million more times before their lives ended. However their people needed them, just as they needed their people. They couldn't get involved in what looked like the beginning of a giant war. They needed to get outside.
"Y-Yes sir." The employee stammered, and led them through the crowd. "Well—I mean—there aren't any planes left, but I think there are still private aircrafts..."
"We will not force anyone out of their seats." Russia said. As he did he looked worriedly over at Canada, who met his gaze with stricken violet eyes. They followed the man through the throngs of people, and Canada pushed forwards to get to Russia.
"What will we do if there aren't enough seats?" He whispered.
"Lucille and Damien can share a seat." Russia murmured back. "You and I do not truly need seats—you and I could go over the border and I could travel through Alaska to get to Mother Russia. However Francis and Arthur will need seats."
"They'll be closing the border after all the flights go out."
The countries turned to look at the employee, who looked vaguely embarrassed. "Sorry, I couldn't help but overhear. No one will be able to get in or out of the United States after this flight—they're trying to contain the people who bombed DC—if they're still in the states. Anyone still in the air will be shot down."
The countries did not speak. They simply looked at each other with wide eyes—and prayed that there were enough seats for all of them.
"There's only room for three more, I'm sorry." A female helicopter pilot said, staring at their group with sad but firm eyes. "You two could share a seat…" She nodded at Damien and Lucille, who breathed a sigh of relief—the countries had told her that either way she was getting out of the United States—before looking worriedly at the other countries. "But I'm afraid there's only room for two more."
"I will stay." Russia said immediately. "It is more likely that I will be able to get out of the states than Arthur or Francis."
"I'll stay, too." England said determinedly, pushing away from Canada's steadying hand and straightening up. "I'm going to look for Alfred—and it would be interesting to see how this unfolds."
"No, Arthur, you can't!" Canada cried. "I have a better chance of getting out of the United States if something bad happens—and it's my brother! I should be here!"
Lucille seemed to sense that this was family business and stepped back. Russia followed her example.
"Do you know who you look like? Who you look exactly like?" England growled fiercely, cutting off Canada. "Alfred. Do you know whose face is plastered as a terrorist across the country? Alfred's. Which house did those two detectives come to? Yours and Alfred's. Who are they suspicious of? You. The capital was just bombed, Matthew. You and Alfred are going to be public enemy number 1."
The young nation stared at England, mouth dropped, eyes wide with hurt. He couldn't find an argument to that; there was no way he could combat what England had just said, because it was true. Finally, he jerked his head down, and said in a heartbreakingly soft, pleading tone, "I just—I can help."
England's face seemed to age ten years at the sound of it, but he continued doggedly, in a gentler voice than before. "How are you supposed to help your brother if you're in jail, or worse?"
Canada paused, opened his mouth—and whipped away, marching angrily towards the stationary helicopter. England could just barely see a tear dripping down the young nation's face.
There was a moment of awkward silence, and then England sighed and rubbed his face. "It's better this way." He murmured sadly, staring at the empty doorway where Canada had disappeared.
"I'll be leaving as well, I assume." France said mournfully.
"You always knew that you were going to be going." England responded quietly, eyes sliding to France's.
"I suppose I did." The Frenchman stepped forwards, and in a completely non-romantic way wrapped his arms around England, pulling him into a tight hug. "You…take care of yourself, do you understand me?"
England froze for a second, before relaxing into the embrace. "You too, frog." He paused. "And…tell Matthew that I'm sorry, and that I love him."
France nodded into England's shoulder. "Anything." For a moment they just stood there, wrapped up in the moment. Then, hesitantly, the Frenchman spoke. "Since…this might be the last time we see each other, Angleterre…would you…?"
"Yes." He whispered and tilted his head back slightly, closing his sad, beautiful emerald eyes. France leaned down to close the distance between them, and—
Russia stood in front of Lucille, smiling down at her, and placed a very squirmy Damien in her arms. "Thank you very much, Miss Lucille. You and your son have made my day much brighter."
"It's not a problem." Lucille grinned back, and placed her son on the ground, curling her hand around his. "Here, one sec..." She suddenly began rummaging around in her pockets, and finally came out with a pen and small square of paper. Scribbling something on the blank, slightly crinkled square, Lucille folded the note and tucked it into Russia's front pocket. "When you get the chance, call this number. Any time you need to talk, I'm there."
Then, without hesitation she hugged him.
Russia tensed up, staring at the space she had been just seconds before, surprised beyond belief. She wasn't…scared of him. She didn't care that he was taller than most doors and was insanely creepy; she had not even hesitated. And her son, as well; the little boy was currently clutching onto his legs, happily rubbing his face in the coarse material.
With a soft smile Russia folded his arms around Lucille, encasing her in a cold, happy embrace.
"Of course I will call." He murmured.
"Be careful." Lucille stepped back and looped her hand around Damien's again. "Don't do anything stupid, you hear?"
He nodded happily, and watched as she hugged England before disappearing into the helicopter, a feeling of warm happiness tingling in his gut.
As they watched the machine take off, England and Russia stood side-by-side, pleasant feelings fading with the large metallic bird that sped away in the sky.
"…I hope we have not made a terrible mistake." Russia said quietly.
England, still staring at the rapidly disappearing dot, sighed and looked away. He turned around, and began heading back towards the building, wind whipping at his hair. "What will we do?"
Russia turned around and started to follow him, easily keeping up with the shorter nation. "We will find America, and we will help him restore order. Unless of course…" Violet eyes darkened. "He has turned traitor."
The though had briefly crossed England's mind, before it had been quickly discarded. "He wouldn't do that. Would he?"
"I suspect there is a darker side to our young, innocent comrade." Russia said simply. "We cannot dismiss the idea."
England took a minute to think about this. Russia watched him calmly, expectantly. Finally, England said, "If that's true…" Emerald eyes darkened. "Then we will not let him win. If we must fight him, we will."
"Mr. President is prepared to make a statement about the bombing in Washington DC." It was a different newscaster this time, a woman with frazzled blonde hair and blue eyes rimmed with red. She had obviously been crying.
"My fellow Americans."
The president looked unruffled, completely calm in the face of the situation. However he also looked somber and sad, eyes deep with emotion.
"A great tragedy has befallen our country today. The capital of the United States has been bombed. Hundreds of people have died. People sit in their homes all over the world, their eyes glued to the television screen—to America. In the words of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, this is a day that will live forever in infamy."
He paused, rubbed his eyes, and continued.
"Today our country was not attacked by a terrorist group, or a small group of people. This was an organized attack. Somebody very powerful and very strong has been planning this for a while, for where else would these people get such high-tech weaponry?" The president stopped for a moment, and let that question hang before continuing. "Something was going to happen today, something right under our very noses. Alfred F. Jones, a young man we apprehended earlier in the week, was part of a group that met every year in different places all over the world. He met with ambassadors from different countries—and he had enough power and authority that he could go anywhere in Washington DC without being stopped.
"No, this wasn't just some unorganized attack. We have been betrayed by the rest of the world." He stopped to let that statement sink in. "We have evidence that he has plotted with these treacherous countries to try and destroy us; they say they grow tired of our foolishness and our insolence. They mean to tear the country apart and then pick up the pieces, bit by bit.
"But we will not let that happen."
The president stood just a tad straighter, eyes filled with passion and the promise of revenge.
"As soon as we crush these…menaces within our own country, we will retaliate. We will not just stand by and let these other countries try to destroy us!" At this, he shook his fist. "We will show the rest of the world just how strong we are!"
"This injustice will not go unpunished!"
The applause was thunderous, and as the president turned away from the camera to go take care of matters elsewhere, no one caught his smug, triumphant smirk.
He had won the first battle. However even though he had, the war was not over.
The President of the United States had work to do.
So...last chapter of the first part. I told you it would get a little exciting :).
One thing about this chapter-this is where Canada's character, to me, changes drastically, which will influence the second half a lot. And...yeah. That's all I have to say about it.
Anyway, after this I'm taking a month hiatus before the next chapter. The second part is just as good, if not better, in my opinion.
Now, on to reviews!
Dragonfire78: Wow, thanks! I tried to make things as emotionally painful as possible, so mission accomplished.
The Rambler: Haha, I love torturing my favorite characters too! And (shhh spoilers) we actually don't see America for...quite a bit, so. Aw, thanks so much!
And just to keep you all interested...an excerpt from chapter 8, which is set 15 years in the future:
"Our agent in New York hasn't responded for two weeks." Russia murmured, staring at the map on the table. He nibbled the pen in his hand thoughtfully, before crossing out the city. "We can assume that he has been discovered." Gently he capped the pen and placed it into his pocket, before looking up at England, who was standing in front of his desk, staring at the messy surface. "We only have three agents left in the East, and I do not doubt that if this keeps up they will be discovered within the next month."
England didn't look up, just kept staring. Russia frowned at the silent blond. "Well? What are you going to do about it?"
There was a long, heavy silence, before England finally spoke. And it was completely unrelated to the topic at hand. "Ivan…you know that there is only one thing keeping us from victory."
"Yes." He responded instantly, figuring that this random subject change had a point. "The Wall." He spat, fist curling on the table.
England nodded, humming in his throat. "And the Dead Zone."
The Dead Zone wasn't a subject they often brought up. It was an area that stretched from the Mexican border to the Canadian border in a giant diagonal line of blackness. The Dead Zone was a mass of weapons and mines; it was suicide for either side to cross, which was why the two sides were so isolated from each other.
Once Russia had seen a picture of the Dead Zone from a tiny flying camera; it was like a great big ugly scar that marred America's once lush, green land, and it made him feel sick. If the nation ever pulled out of this warlike state, it most likely would be a permanent testament to this horrible time.
Russia was silent.
England seemed to realize that Russia wasn't going to respond, because he continued very quietly. "As you and I both know, there is no way to cross the Dead Zone without getting killed. There is no way to drive across it, no way to fly without getting shot down." The Englishman took a deep breath, and planted his hands on the desk, still not looking at Russia.
The blonde seemed to realize that England was staring at something—not just the desk, but something on the desk. He slowly walked over to look, eyes landing on the current map of the United States of America. It was just like any other map; the West—what their side was called—was split in two; Russia's side, and England's side (though they did work together, they had quickly learned they had different ways of taking care of their refugees), the big black line that was marked in pure white letters, the 'Dead Zone', and the East in vibrant red.
Except…there was a new mark on the map. A white line that Russia wouldn't have been able to spot if he hadn't been looking closely, marking a little slash through the very top of the Dead Zone, so close to the Wall it was almost touching.
"Do you trust me?" England said suddenly, finally turning to look at the taller nation.
Russia stared at England, a frown on his face. "You are insane." He murmured, before he took a fortifying breath. "Yes. Always. You know this."
"I found a way around the mines." England said quietly, stroking the little white line with one finger. "It's obvious that neither side thought the other would be crazy enough to mine right next to the Wall. The wild electricity off the Wall would be enough to kill any normal human, but…" He smiled suddenly, eyes mischievous. "How would you like to take a little trip across the Dead Zone?"
Till next time,
IceEckos12