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

As promised, an OC guide:

The scientists:

Alistair Cruise-A cold, unfeeling German scientist who like to do lots experiments.

Mikhail Ziegel-An American scientist with a dark side. He said he works for a group that knows about the countries, but as of yet we don't know what it is.

Koliabskaia-A stoic, serious Russian scientist who takes his work very seriously. Calm, and level headed.

Von Arx-A Swiss scientist with a thirst for modern pop culture. Close to Koliabskaia, only because they're the only two not involved in all the drama surrounding the lab.

Celine Shay-A French scientist who's very smart and very beautiful. Alistair and Celine had a thing.

The Agents:

Devon-A new agent, with a lot of moral issues. Not very serious, is corralled all too often by Bea.

Bea-A smart, experienced agent, who's learned to trust the system and do his job.

Other:

Lucille-A single mother, she works very hard to provide for her child Damian. Fell in love with America.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia

Recap:

Washington D.C. has been bombed by America's psychotic president. America, locked up in a lab far away, is powerless to stop him. The other nations, England, Russia, France, and Canada, do their best to escape, but in the end only France and Canada do.

2035

15 years after the Fall of America

It was still dark outside.

Gregorick scowled at his watch, and peered outside. The time read twelve o' clock in the afternoon, but it couldn't be later than six o'clock in the morning—the sun was peeking shyly over the horizon, ready to take flight into the deep blue sky. And that meant that he had broken another watch, which was really, really bad news.

He nudged the cheap piece unhappily, and sighed. For some reason whenever a tragedy, terrible or small, was going to happen his watch broke; it was the only warning her ever got. He had never mentioned this phenomenon to anyone else, because it was simply insane; but still, it always happened. For instance; when he was nine, he got a little black and silver watch for his birthday. It stopped an hour after he got it, though he hadn't noticed. But almost ten minutes after his watch broke he fell out of a tree and his arm fractured like a twig.

Greg had originally assumed that the watch had broken when he fell. But when he was eleven, his watch had cracked as he was walking down a sidewalk. He had noticed it that time, and had curiously nudged it, before shrugging and deciding that the thing just needed a new battery.

Fifty minutes after that a shooting occurred in a movie theater just a couple blocks away from his house. That had been coincidence, but still just a bit creepy. He had slept with the lights on and the blankets pulled over his head that night, shivering like a wet dog in the rain.

Over the years Greg had gotten so used to his watch breaking right before something bad happened, that by the time he was nineteen it was the norm. Catastrophes happened when his watched decided to mysteriously cease functioning. So one night when his watch had fairly exploded on his wrist, sending little bits of shrapnel across his skin, Greg had decided to cut his losses, get in his hand-me-down car and drive out into the middle of nowhere to weather out whatever tragedy was going to happen next.

He had brought a cheap little radio with him, to keep track of what was happening. However he didn't get any news until an hour after the bombing of Washington DC had stopped.

It came as a shock to the entire nation, especially after the president had revealed who exactly was responsible. Greg himself had sat in an old rocking chair, staring at nothing in horror at what had happened. It was…terrifying, Washington DC getting bombed. They'd had so many years of peace and prosperity—the economy had been recovering nicely from the Recession back in the 2010s—that America had forgotten that they, while powerful, were not invincible.

This fact was certainly emphasized—for several months after the bombing, everyone had been panicking; there was no order in America, just blind terror. The president had been doing his best to quell the chaos, and it was working, somewhat. However a resistance had already established itself, claiming that the president was lying, and that Alfred F. Jones—the supposed spearhead of the people who had bombed them—was actually a great leader, and that the president had orchestrated the attack, to make the population easier to manipulate in their vulnerable state.

Greg wasn't sure who to believe. The president's tale seemed very farfetched, and there were so many loose ends—like why didn't America sense, or at least react to the attack? They were one of the most powerful countries in the world, weren't they?

But then again, the story was also plausible. The president had a lot of evidence, showing small clips of Alfred F. Jones and the other ambassadors talking in quite a violent manner, as well as pictures that Alfred himself had drawn of a giant man getting ready to squash America.

(In response, the resistance had posted a picture of the beaming American on the internet, as well as the childishly drawn poster. The title was 'who, me?' Greg had to admit, after he had seen that picture had had grown a little skeptical. The man who had supposedly bombed the capital was beaming so honestly at whoever had taken the picture it had been hard to believe that he could hurt a fly.)

But now fifteen years had passed, and neither side had gained all that much ground. The resistance was much smaller than the presidents group, but for some reason they were very well informed about America—top secret passcodes to get around the defenses, where they stored weapons (the first thing the resistance had done was raid the stores of weapons and tech and burn all they didn't need) and the like—but the presidents group was larger and had more capabilities, and they had somehow managed to nab some genius as their general of war.

It was only in the past three years that the territories of the two groups had really been defined; the resistance tended to favor the north western states, like Washington, Oregon, Montana, and their borders ended at—well, sort of ended—at Minnesota, South Dakota, Nebraska, Colorado and New Mexico, otherwise known as the Dead Zone. The reason they 'sort of' ended in those states was the fact that those five states were disputed territory, and anything living that even looked over the border of the state would most likely abruptly explode, no matter who or what they were. It was akin to the DMZ in the Korean War.

Greg himself lived in Pennsylvania, deep in the government's territory. And though he hadn't ever really picked a side, Greg had always favored the rebels ever-so-slightly, because life had not gotten any better for those who lived in this area. In fact, it had gotten a whole heck of a lot worse.

The one most important thing that had happened was something that had kept the resistance from victory for thirteen years. If that thing hadn't been made the president would've long been dead, and the resistance would've long since won.

It was the Wall.

No one was quite sure of the exact date when the Wall raised—some say it was a year after the Fall of DC, some say it was two—but all the country knew was that one moment you could leave and enter the country with some difficulty, and the next an illegal airplane was fried flying over the Canadian border.

The president had broadcasted the clip all over the nation of the plane shuddering uncontrollably and falling to the ground. Everyone had seen the electricity sparkling along the wings, and several people had confirmed that the pilot had been dead instantly—because almost 100,000 volts had coursed through the little metallic bird. The Wall, a giant electrical field, completely surrounded the entire United States (sans Hawaii and Alaska).

Now nothing could get in or out.

After the Wall was erected, making sure no one could escape, the 'gifted' people were swiped up. Great scientists, skilled mathematicians, particularly smart people everywhere had been taken from their homes, never to be seen again. Greg thanked God—not for the first time—that he had never been really good at anything. When he had been younger it had driven him crazy that he was one of the dumb kids in class, but in a situation like this he was rather pleased with how everything turned out. All he was really good for was menial grunt work that required little thought.

The next thing that had happened was the schools. Greg, who had lived in a cheerful neighborhood filled with clamoring, happy children, had fled to his basement after the cries of distraught mothers forced him there.

It was because that any child eligible for grade school was being forcibly taken from their homes to get 'special education'—which meant that they were being put in boarding schools that looked almost like juvenile detention centers and were forced to learn at such any advanced rate it was frightening. Punishments were horrid, and if you even put a toe out of line….well, no one knew what really happened, but none of the children ever talked about it. When they came out, they were…different. So different. Blank, dead-faced boys and girls who had no will, who blindly listened to everything they were being told, and didn't question anything.

It was slowly becoming too late for this generation to ever recover.

Society in the East—for that was what the president's territory was called—quickly became based on your level of importance to the government. If you were very important to them, then you were whisked away, never to be seen again. If you were important, you were sent closer to Philadelphia and put into a nice home, but you were also tied to the government; there was no way you could escape from their hold. When they called, you came, no matter what it was for.

The people of less importance were sent to mediocre neighborhoods, and they had a little more freedom than the upper classes. However they didn't have nearly as many privileges or money; they were the normal of society.

And then there were the dregs, the people who didn't really do much for society, like him. They were all provided with small, featureless white apartments and the bare necessities, nothing more, nothing less. They were reserved for all the menial tasks, like manual labor and, like Greg was doing now, guarding something. He didn't actually know what he was guarding—none of the guards ever did anymore—but all he knew was that it was important.

He really didn't like his job.

And now he was starting to wonder where the other guy was—the one who was supposed to be guarding the door with him. Greg didn't believe in coincidences.

Greg was just considering the consequences if he went home early to try and escape whatever issue that was going to come up next, when he was distracted by the sound of soft, catlike footsteps. He looked over to see who was approaching—probably another guard on his rounds—only to start in surprise.

He didn't recognize that man.

It was a very, very tall man with silvery-blond hair, skin very pale. His eyes, childlike and ancient at the same time, were an exotic violet. He was wearing the typical guard uniform, except for one small embellishment; a long pink scarf that wrapped around his neck and then trailed down to the backs of his knees. There wasn't anything distinguishing about him, except for the fact that Greg didn't recognize him. And before each guard began their job, they were shown pictures of who else worked there so no one could fake being an employee.

Greg fidgeted uncomfortably as the man walked closer. Maybe he'll walk past me and someone else will have to deal with him.

No such luck.

The tall man stopped in front of him and smiled brightly, though it was really, really creepy. Not one to be rude, Greg smiled unsurely back.

"Hello." The blonde nodded his head, his voice a cheerful rumble, but oh God if it wasn't the creepiest thing he'd ever heard. "I am sorry I am late. I am very new to this job."

Greg shrank back slightly, still smiling. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to handle this situation, especially since this guy was obviously part of the resistance. This guy was Russian, and the only thing less welcome than the resistance were foreigners. The government had tracked down every known foreigner they could find and then stuck them in camp, much like the Japanese-American internment camps during World War 2.

He wouldn't be surprised if this guy was part of the resistance. Foreign and unfamiliar; it was like a neon sign reading 'resistance' was pointing at this guy.

Oh. He knew how to handle this.

"H-Hey." He said as cheerfully as he could. "That's a cool accent you got there. But y-you better not let the boss catch you imitating the foreigners—that could you in real trouble."

The tall man blinked, staring at the American with cold, steady eyes. Then he nodded slowly. "Of course, my mistake. I think accents are cool." The words and accent sounded foreign on the Russian's tongue, but the façade was almost perfect.

"And you might want to get signed in, too." Greg continued, knowing that he could get killed for this, but not really caring. "You know the rules. 'Never let in an unrecognized face'. You're lucky it's your first day; otherwise I'd have to turn you in for that."

The Russian just kept staring at him—Greg could have sworn the guy was surprised, or something along those lines, though it was very hard to tell. He seemed to realize that Greg knew he was part of the resistance, and was actually trying to help him. Then, as though that exchange had never happened, the man smiled and glided smoothly to the wall. "Thank you, comrade. I will remember that while I am in town."

For a second, Greg thought that that would be it. He didn't understand why the Russian was there, but he had just helped him, hadn't he? Perhaps he had just avoided the crisis, something he'd never done before. Which would be awesome, because—

"I'm sorry." The Russian said, right before there was a dull pain in the back of his neck, and then blackness.

Russia gently leaned the guard against the wall, taking extra care of this one. He hadn't extended the same courtesy to the guards in the camera room, because they had tried to kill him before he had easily knocked them out. But this one, this one had known that he was part of the resistance, and had even gone so far as to help him. This was something they hadn't heard about the East, that foreigners were no longer welcomed (he couldn't help but wonder what had happened to them), and that guards were all checked out before they were put on the job.

England would be pleased—or not so pleased?—to hear about this; it would explain why all their agents were disappearing.

The Russian turned around to face the door and carefully keyed in the code, remembering when England had finally gotten desperate enough to send him in…

"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?"

And that was how Russia had taken a grueling two week long trip across a barren wasteland that electrocuted him every five seconds. Well, not every five seconds, thankfully. Once every two or three days, at maximum. But still, the trip had been long and tedious, and if he had not been a country he would have died for certain. Not to mention he had nearly obliterated himself on a mine at least three times. This wouldn't have killed him, of course, but it was likely that the mine would throw him into the Wall, and no matter how strong a country is you will always feel 100,000 volts in the morning.

That had been one year ago.

Russia gently pressed the very realistic thumb into the print analyzer, wrinkling his nose when the machine accepted it. The thumb was very, very real; it even had a fake heart-beat, just in case the analyzer also checked to see if the appendage was still attached when it was being scanned.

Putting the fake thumb away (it was very creepy) Russia took out a voice recorder and pressed it up to the microphone (it had taken weeks of preparation to get ready for this moment), pressing the play button, which rattled off the password in an unfamiliar man's voice. The microphone beeped happily and retracted into the wall, before flipping over and displaying one last scanner.

This was the creepiest part. Even creepier than the thumb.

Russia closed his eyes and withdrew the plastic baggie from his pocket and carefully removed the wet, bulbous eye it. He carefully examined it to make sure there weren't any breaks in the delicate flesh, before putting it up to the scanner, shuddering in disgust. The scanner accepted the eye readily enough, and the door finally opened.

Seconds later, the really nasty eye was back in the baggie and safely in his pocket again. Russia entered the room, sighing in relief that there weren't any other obstacles to worry about. This place had been guarded heavily (the only variable had been the guard in front of the door), and it had been difficult for even Russia to infiltrate. And even then, it had some of England's help to get in. Speaking of the Brit, it had actually been him to give him the information that there was some important in this place.

England had actually called him, too, which only emphasized how important this building was. Calling was actually a very big deal; after all, it was dangerous, and time consuming.

There were satellites hanging above the United States, five in all. They floated listlessly above the Dead Zone, scrambling calls and signals of all sort when they tried to reach the other side. However England and Russia had figured out a way to get around them. It had been a problem that had plagued them to no end, until one day it had come to Russia as he had stared at the bright lights across the Dead Zone, wishing for the West.

It had taken a few weeks of letters and cannons—their original form of communication—but eventually they had rigged up a system of communication that involved the signal traveling through the light. It had been very difficult, and very complicated, and it often gave out on them, but it worked well enough for their purposes. And they also couldn't do it all that often; after all, the East would probably notice them.

Russia thought that this would have made him very jealous, because they had thought of it first.

But he didn't matter anymore. He had betrayed them, left them to the dogs. He had never been there friend, despite what they had thought.

Shaking off the past like a wet dog shakes off water, Russia looked around.

It was a normal enough room, with a green desk sitting in a corner, a mahogany bookshelf sitting in the other. The space was actually quite small; though the only two pieces of furniture were on opposite sides of the room, they were about three feet away from each other. And, as Russia and England had guessed, there weren't any electronics in the place.

The reason the two of them had assumed that the documents they were looking for were paper and not electronic was because it was ten times easier to track, destroy and copy digital documents. One could put a virus on a computer, too, or hack in and out of a system without leaving a trace within a matter of minutes if they were skilled enough. Paper documents were easier to lose, sure, but they were also easier to destroy, and easier to get rid of in a pinch. With papers one could be assured that their document wasn't copied secretly before being transferred to them.

And it only made sense that these papers would be the most heavily guarded of all. Most likely handwritten and in code, as well.

But Russia knew all the codes. That government worker had squealed like a pig to save his own life—and then he had sent him to the West so England could have a crack at him.

He knew exactly where the document he wanted was located, the traps around it, everything. It was a simple matter of getting in and out.

Russia strode over to the desk and opened the bottom drawer, smirking slightly when he heard the lock screech from being forced open. Once the drawer was all the way open (and having dodged the poisoned darts that had spat at his face), Russia began thumbing through files, looking for the one he wanted.

The names are backwards. He twitched, annoyed. When he had started in the back he had expected to see the code word for the document he wanted, but he'd only gotten a code word meaning…

America.

He stared at the file, eyes narrowed at the symbols that spelled out the traitor's name. That traitor had bombed himself as an excuse to go to war with the rest of them! He had even fooled the other countries for years, so that they would trust him and believe in him when he was really planning for this moment—

Russia clenched his fists around the document, breathing hard through his nose. America. When I find you, you will pay for the injustice you have caused for us.

Then, he let out a low, slow breath and gently set the document onto the ground next to him, wishing he had a punching bag or something. Just thinking of America made him feel sick and angry, which was no doubt what that traitor wanted him to feel.

At first, England and Russia had believed in America's innocence, thinking him to be oblivious to the whole situation. But then, slowly, Russia had realized that the America he knew would never stand for this heresy committed against his people; he would've barged into the room, guns blazing in a very America way. And there was no way the government could've kept the proud, strong nation down for so long. He would've escaped long ago if he wanted to.

America was a traitor. There was no other way to spell it out.

Russia went back to rummaging through the drawer, suddenly very aware of his window of time slipping away. He had a few minutes at the most before someone finally realized what was going on; this was the most secure building in the new capital, Philadelphia. No doubt the guards were supposed to check in every thirty minutes or something to make sure they hadn't been kidnapped or something.

It was just as he found the document labeled, 'The Wall' when an alarm began blaring throughout the building, and the door slammed shut with a very final, deep clang the reverberated throughout the enclosed room. Russia did not let this deter him; he reached down, absentmindedly picked the file on America up, and leapt to his feet.

He ran up to the door and abruptly lashed out, kicking it in its sweet spot; that exact point where it was weakest. It worked wonders; the door easily let him pass, its will broken by Russia's powerful strike. Grinning to himself with pleasure, he skidded into the hall and up to the windows. Still high on adrenaline, the tall Russian reared back and slammed his fist into the very thick, very strong glass.

The glass cracked a little, spider-web lines streaking out from the center point. Russia lunged forwards again, throwing his weight into the next punch; the glass let out an ear-shattering crack, and buckled slightly. Only one more hit and the window would be gone.

As Russia leaned back the final time, he was distracted by the sound of footsteps; someone had finally heard the sounds of shattering glass and had realized that this was where the intruder was. Actually, there were several people, their boots clacking on the hard ground loudly. Realizing that time was running short and if Russia wanted to get out without getting peppered with bullet holes he would have to wrap this up really quick.

This time, Russia sent a beautiful, perfect kick square into the center of the cracked glass.

The shards looked almost like snow falling all around him as Russia jumped out of the window, one arm supporting his weight on the ledge. The drop was at least five stories, but he wasn't worried; his knees were still perfectly fine. He landed with a thick thunk and turned around to face his pursuers.

They were shouting at each other now, yelling about backup and helicopters and all sorts of nonsense. Russia decided that he didn't really care for that sort of talk and with a smile withdrew his pipe from his coat. None of the people seemed to notice; they were just aiming at him with their guns, still shouting at each other.

The powerful nation's arm drew back one moment, and then the next the pipe was careening through the window, whipping around like a propeller, slicing through guns, flesh and bone alike; the yelling turned into pained shrieks. When the pipe-turned-boomerang slammed back into Russia's hand, it was slick with blood, blackened with gun stuffs. It wasn't a new sight, though Russia vowed to clean the thing later; the last thing he wanted was day old blood stuck on his favorite weapon.

Russia saluted the people, grinning like a lunatic. They hadn't gotten a good look at his face, he was sure of it; and he had taken out the cameras beforehand. There was no way they would be able to track him down.

That was Russia's last though as he turned around and sped into the heart of Philadelphia, his hard won documents clenched in one hand, crumpling badly in his tight grip.

One hour later

"This is terrible." One guard said to the other, not for the first time. He and his friend had been relatively unscathed by the giant's freakish throw, but the rest of the people on his squad…one of them had died. Two others were badly injured, and most likely would never be the same. The rest all had minor cuts and bruises, but they had still been hurt.

"That guy was a psycho. How could one throw do so much damage?" He shook his head, and looked to stare at the guy who had been guarding the door. The poor man looked shell-shocked and terrified, staring wide-eyed at all the people around him. "How did that guy live? He was face to face with that giant, and he only got knocked out."

"Luck." The first guard shrugged. "He'll remember this moment for the rest of his life; the time he met a lunatic and survived. Maybe he'll be on a talk show or something."

The other nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps." Neither of them decided to say anything about how all the best talk shows had stopped airing after the new regime was instated. Deciding to change the topic, he continued, "So was anything taken? I heard some people talking about it, but…"

"Well…" The guard looked around, nibbling his lip nervously, before beckoning his friend closer. "I wasn't really supposed to have heard this…some people were talking close to the place I was being given a checkup…but I heard that two things were taken. The first was something about America."

He gave him an odd look. "America? What sort of thing about America?"

"Just America." The guard said firmly, that nervous look still in his eyes. "But I don't think we're supposed to know about it. I mean, it was very hush-hush. You get what I'm saying?"

A lot of things were hush-hush these days, and if you ever heard about these forbidden things…well, it was said that one day you were there, and the next you had vanished, never to be seen again. Such was the ways of the new government; no one was all that surprised. Fear seemed to be the way with this place. Plus, the new general was apparently as brilliant as he was brutal, and had a strict 'take no prisoners' rule.

The other guard nodded emphatically, eager to get off the subject if his friend knew nothing more.

"The second thing that was taken…" He paused. "Well, it's really big. Like, war changing big. If what I heard was true…then…" He gulped, which only made the other guard more nervous—and only made the situation more suspenseful.

"Tell me!" He squeaked, wincing when the first guard chuckled at his high-pitched chirp, and in a lower voice repeated, "Tell me."

"Well I heard…they found a way to take the Wall down. They're going to try and bring down the Wall."

Heeey, guys, I'm back! It's been a month since I last posted, so here you go. This is the second part of the fanfiction, and a fifteen year jump. A lot of things have changed since the beginning, and you've all probably forgotten the OCs, so I put a list and a short description at the top. I hope that helps.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed! It's always nice to hear back from you guys.

Dragonfire78: D'aaaw, thanks! My friend, who's really into shipping, just about took my head off when I cut the kiss off. I hope this chapter is as good as you hoped-and it only gets better.

Sleepery: Don't worry, the people who did this will definitely get taught a lesson. You'll just have to be patient, because in the second part the characters have a lot of depressing moments.

The Rambler: Aw, thanks! I am definitely awesomer than Prussia!...not really. But thank you. The characters get better, somewhat. Heh.

GenderBender25-Eheh. America's not exactly...dead, per se...UH...spoilers. Anyway, thanks for the review!

That's all for now, folks!

IceEckos12