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. If you're looking for an OC directory, look in chapter 8.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia
America was dreaming.
He knew it was a dream, because this was the safest he had felt in the last few(1? 2? 5?15?200?) years. All the scars and wounds had disappeared from his strong, healthy body; his hands no longer trembled, and there was no more ache that pervaded his entire body. He was wearing his favorite bomber jacket, the fabric soft and comforting against his skin, the soothing scent of fast food and engine oil tickling the insides of his nose. His hair no longer hung limply around his shoulders like a greasy dead thing; it was cut into his favorite style, full and achingly bright.
These were perhaps his favorite dreams, and his most tortuous ones; he was reminded of who he had once been, reminded of his strength and power…reminded of how beautiful he'd once been.
But he always had to wake up. Always.
And then his strength and floating feeling would leave him and he would wake with a start to the pain, the agony of his situation. He would wake to the needles, the toxins, the scornful faces and cold, pitiless eyes…he would wake to reality. Waking up was probably the most painful thing he could ever do, because for once in his relatively short existence…he truly wanted to die. Either free him or end this eternal torment; that was all he asked. But he was immortal, so there was nothing he could do. Absolutely fucking nothing.
He hated to dream.
America was very suddenly awoken from his bitter thoughts by the realization that he wasn't alone. He moved quite suddenly, taking an abrupt step back from the presence—years of living in fear had honed his instincts to dread the very thought of a human being. But then he realized that this was not just a person; this was a child. An innocent being, unspoiled by the horrors of war.
The child looked to be around four or five, his black hair falling delicately around his face, cheeks puffed slightly with baby fat. He had blood-red eyes, but America didn't feel all that alarmed about their disconcerting look; after all, Prussia had had very similar rosy irises, and the not-really-a-country country had been relatively harmless. His round face and tiny hands, the only things that poked out from his small white gown, were quite pale, a stark difference from America's own tanned complexion. The odd thing was…he looked almost exactly America had when he was little, except for the different color scheme.
This was what had America a little wary of approaching him. Still, America hadn't seen a kind human being for fifteen years—maybe a little longer. Besides, this was just a dream; nothing could happen to him here.
"Hey." America knelt down in front of the child, feeling surprise in the back of his mind that his voice hadn't croaked—it always did in real life. The child, who only just seemed to notice him, narrowed his eyes at America's extended hand, waiting to be completed by the other half of the handshake. "What's your name?"
He was a little apprehensive about talking to people, since he hadn't had any friendly conversations with people lately—what if he accidently offended someone worse than usual?—but he thought he'd handled the introduction correctly. Even so, the little boy's eyes slowly traveled from his hand to his face, scowl deepening slightly at America's wide beam.
"Who are you?" And then little boy proceeded to ignore all the rules of introduction and jumped straight into the pleasantries.
America's smile never dimmed. "That's not how you greet people." He said gently. "You shake my hand, and then you say your name. Then I'll say mine. Okay?"
The little boy's eyes trailed back down to America's hand, and he very tentatively reached out and put his hand into the grasp. America closed his giant fist around the raven's tiny one, gently shaking the frail, soft appendage, and then looked into the wary red eyes. "Nice to meet you. What's your name?"
The little boy hesitated, then said in a small, cold whisper, "…the Eastern American Republic."
America froze, lips parted slightly in surprise, eyes wide with disbelief. Time slowed down; suddenly he couldn't hear anything by his cold, crisp breath; the only thing he saw was that child, the eyes weary and affronted.
This was…
No. It couldn't be.
Couldn't possibly.
No.
The little boy suddenly began to squirm, trying to tug away from the larger country; America's eyes widened when he realized he'd tightened his grip almost painfully around the tiny hand.
Time sped up.
America forced a tight smile onto his face, loosening his grip. "Sorry, little guy. You just surprised me for a second there." After a moment of hesitation, he continued, "That's a bit of a mouthful, Eastern American Republic. Hm…" The larger nation stroked his chin thoughtfully, and then let out a loud snort. "Heh, your initials are EAR."
The Eastern American Republic's crimson eyes glared disdainfully, displaying his opinion of the title.
A wide beam still on his face, America continued on—no need to antagonize the kid any more than necessary. "Can I just call you East?" His lips curled upward slightly, remembering Prussia and Germany and their fond brotherly relationship and nononono stop, don't remember the outside—
The Eastern American Republic, now dubbed 'East', stared at America with confused and less suspicious eyes, no doubt warming up to the nation as he joked; it was a nice change from his earlier hostility. "Um…sure. I guess." It was as though he had never spoken to someone like America—friendly, willing to take your opinions into consideration…
America sighed sadly; what a cruel existence for one so young. When he was younger he'd always had someone…even though England was never there, he always made sure the budding nation was well cared for. His surrogate father had done whatever he could to raise him right. (Even though yeah, there were times when England was a little overbearing, and bossy, and his food was terrible, and made America dress up in those ridiculous clown costumes that itched like hell, and—)
He was startled out of his reverie by East's annoyed voice.
"Didn't you say it was rude not to introduce yourself?" The little boy's face was morphing into a glare; he was annoyed that America had gripped his hand tight enough to cause him pain, and that America was being a hypocrite.
Having the decency to look sheepish, America dropped the hand and rubbed the back of his head. "Haha, sorry. I was surprised…by your name. It's…cool." He finished lamely, and ignored the incredulous look he got from the little brat. "My name is America. I'm your older brother!"
"What." It wasn't a question, the tone low and deadpan; it seemed as though he'd inherited England's sense of sarcasm.
"Well, see, you're East. There's got to be a West somewhere…but you guys are both part of me! And I think it'd be a little awkward if I was your mom, 'cause I'm not a chick, and it'd be weird if I was your dad, so…" America rocked back on his heels and grinned cheekily at the stunned little boy. "I'm your bro now! We should hang out and do sports and watch the Super Bowl on HD and crap like that! It'll be so much fun!"
He didn't know why he was acting this way—like he wasn't freaking out inside, like he didn't want to curl up in a corner and beg for mercy—because he, America, was fading. He was slowly getting replaced by this…half-nation. America could feel it, too; there was a weakness in him that there hadn't been before, a sudden lack of confidence that left him feeling small. Like he wasn't quite…real, anymore.
He was dying. It was terrifying, but for some reason America couldn't bear to show it. Maybe he was in denial.
"I…guess." The little boy said thoughtfully, staring at the overly cheerful nation. "But…how can I be half of you? I don't even look like you!"
"I looked almost exactly like you when I was a shrimp!" America said cheerfully, and without thinking began ruffling East's hair. "Well, I didn't look like a vampire. Are you going to start sparkling anytime soon? Oh, I got a good nickname for you!"
East looked bewildered.
Almost like he was a King in the Medieval Era, America stood stick-straight in front of the little boy and touched his shoulders with an invisible sword. "I now dub thee…Sir Sparkle King!" East's fast morphed into a horrified mask, eyebrows furrowed up over his scrunched nose, mouth dropped ever-so-slightly; America couldn't help but burst into laughter at the sight. "Hahaha…Sparkle King!" He shouted, and rubbed the tears out of his eyes. A wonderful feeling of lightness was spreading through him—like he had been lifted of some terrible weight. He didn't know why, but…
Then he realized it, freezing with his hand pressed to one side of his face.
"You know…" He said quietly, slowly dragging his hand down the side of his face. East—now dubbed the Sparkle King—who had been backing away from the hysterical nation, looked up in confusion. "I haven't laughed like that in…fifteen years." His hand landed on the back of his neck, and he gently rubbed the place where the scar had been in real life—the scar he had gotten when Alistair had hooked an electricity machine to his—nonononono stop, don't think about it, look away—
"…you're weird." The little boy responded, lips twitching into a small smile, scuttling to America's side. "But I like you. Can I keep you?"
America wasn't quite sure how to respond to that. "Um…" He began, trying to figure out the best way to explain to this kid that this was a dream. "Well, see…"
"Step away from him! Don't listen to him!"
The pair turned to look in the direction of the voice, America in confusion and East the Sparkle King in anger. America was met with the oddest sight; a little boy in an identical white gown, hair cut in the same exact style as East's, face shaped with the same puffs of baby fat. However that was the only thing they had in common.
This little boy had quite literally dirty blond hair; it was disheveled and messy, and looked like it hadn't been washed in a while. The bits of skin that America could see around the thin layer of dirt and grime was pale, but not as pale as the Sparkle King's skin. His eyes were quite odd; one was a sharp, intelligent green, the other a cold, creepy violet. Even though he was pudgy, his eyes had a battle-hardened edge to them, giving him a ragged, almost crazed look. He was staring at East with such an intense expression…well, if that kid had been able to shoot laser beams with his eyes, East would have been a spot of charcoal.
"Brother, back away from him!" The little boy cried. It took America a moment to realize that this kid was talking to him. "For I am the Western American Resistance, and I remember what being a true American is!"
"Don't listen to him." East growled, glaring just as intensely back at West. "This coward speaks treachery and lies! He must be defeated, so that we may be able to unlock our true potential!"
America took a step back from the megalomaniac East, but did not step closer to the passionate West. He wasn't really sure how to react to a situation like this—the closest he'd gotten to two parts of himself arguing were the civil war, but that was a really long time ago. And these two weren't exactly as simple as a civil war.
Wait. If these two existed…then why did he was he still alive? During the Civil War, America had split literally in two, and the two half-countries had rampaged across the eastern half of the nation before the argument had finally been resolved. As soon as the war had been won, America had been reformed—literally. The two half-countries had disappeared and become one country again—albeit America had been a bit worse for wear. It had taken weeks for the surgeons to get his organs back in the places where they were supposed to be. He still didn't have a clue where one of his ribs was.
Back to the point: these two couldn't exist while he still walked—limped—on this earth. It simply wasn't possible. Unless…
There was a possibility. It was highly unlikely, but America couldn't think of a better explanation.
Maybe…just maybe…His people didn't accept the new America. Perhaps they still believed in him enough to keep him alive—West certainly seemed to. Sure, America was feeling weaker and weaker every day, but he was still alive. People hadn't thrown away the old ideals, the old…America. People hadn't forgotten about him! He was still remembered!
And then he remembered that this was just a dream, and probably the result of his jacked up emotions—his mental state wasn't exactly healthy at the moment.
America was interrupted from his mental debate by the sound of fighting. Specifically, too little boys rolling around on the ground, punching and scratching at each other so violently the larger nation couldn't help but feel a little frightened. He quickly decided that it was high time he stepped in and tried to control the situation.
He walked over and picked East up by the scruff of his neck, ignoring the indignant shout that accompanied the little captive. Then, when West rolled onto his stomach, surprised that his sparring partner had been taken away, America reached out and scooped up the other little boy, holding the two of them comfortably against his chest. The two of them—after a few seconds of futile struggling—settled into the giant, comforting arms, glaring as best they could at each other.
"What's the big idea?" East growled, glaring at his fraternal twin in disgust.
"I was about to ask the same thing." West responded with equal hostility.
America smiled indulgently at the pair, inwardly crooning about how cute they were. "You two are brothers." He wondered if this was what England had felt like so long ago, with him and Matthew. "You can't beat each other up, no matter how tempting it is. You have to get along. Okay?"
Both boys stared up in surprise at the grin, eyes wide; they hadn't encountered a person quite like America in their short existences. Finally, they both nodded and looked away, ashamed of their actions. However neither of them were willing to admit apologize to the other; their pride simply wouldn't allow it. America noticed this and quietly goaded them onwards.
"Come on, then." He urged cheerfully. "Apologize. You're all part of America, we have to be friendly to each other!"
Neither one agreed with that statement, but they didn't want to disappoint this new, wonderful, strange person who was claiming to be their older brother (despite considering themselves to be quite different from each other, the two of them were actually rather similar). West—perhaps being the least proud on of the bunch, struggled to sit up in America's grasp—and reached out with one hand, bottom lip jutted out.
"I'm sorry." He said, a pout firmly pressed into his face. He obviously was not sorry.
"As am I." East responded carefully, gently taking the hand and shaking it gingerly, as though the hand had been dipped in radioactive sewage.
America didn't seem to care that there was barely concealed vehemence dancing beneath the surface. Either that, or he didn't notice. Either way, his smile just widened and hugged the both of them tighter.
"This is great, guys! I was so lonely, all by myself. I don't know how long I've been asleep, but it feels like forever! Now I have the two of you to keep me company, this is awesome!" He continued to nuzzle the tops of their heads, until the two of them felt a little uncomfortable.
"Big brother…" West protested, trying to push the big golden head away.
"Nope! Not going to stop! This is what big bros do!" America seemed to be enjoying this all too much. "I'm showing my affection in the most annoying way possible!"
And America continued to dream.
Russia was anxiously flipping through the file about the Wall, trying to decipher the strange code it was in. He recognized it, sort of—it was an oldie, from World War 1, and he was at a loss how they managed to find it. They were using very archaic methods that hadn't been employed in a very long time, and most of the old things—codes, books, movies—had been taken away by the government and 'controlled'. He wasn't sure what had happened to them, whether they were burned or simply contained, but at this point he really didn't care. There were more pressing matters to worry about.
He'd need to send this document to England. Russia would never be able to decipher this code without the British Gentleman's help—he had used it the most, after all, and nobody had been able to unravel its secrets.
Russia put the document aside for now. At the moment there was nothing more he could do. Instead, he turned to look at the file on America. No doubt the traitorous buffoon had told these people everything he had about them—the very thought made him grit his teeth in anger. Then, he released his clenched jaw with a sigh and opened the thick manila folder, knowing that it would do him no good to act like this. Losing his temper wouldn't help him get revenge.
"Let's see what we have here." The blonde muttered, and carefully opened the folder. Something fell from the interior and clattered onto his desk—a small black book that, strangely enough, had no title. Curiously Russia picked it up and turned it over, fascinated by the little thing. He was anxious to go through it and see what it was about, but first he had to check if there was anything else in the folder—which there was.
Russia removed the sheaf of papers from the inside and examined them, taking in the titles, the handwriting—which was all quite different. There were at least five different types of handwriting, maybe more, he couldn't tell. They all seemed to be…subject files? Deciding to save the more tedious work for later, Russia picked up the black book and set the stack of papers down on one corner of the desk. Then he settled into his seat to read and flipped open the little book, eyes instinctively finding the date—approximately fifteen years before. It was all in German, too.
April 17, 2020
Entry 1
This is a documentary of the cloning of a special subject—a creature that has paralleled itself to a country. I must admit I did not believe it at first (it speaks our language fluently), but now I know that it must be true. Just seeing this monster at a safe distance, chained to the table and controlled by electricity, I could tell that it was dangerous, and proud. Rather like a lion, in my opinion.
My apologies. I do not mince words, and I do not intend to. My name is Alistair, and I am writing of my experiences while trying to clone the strange creature that calls itself 'America'.
As he read, his eyes widened—at the last sentence, the book dropped from Russia's limp fingers. His jaw was slackened, eyes huge with shock as he stared into nothingness. It can't be true. He thought numbly, eyes trailing to stare at the small black journal, which was splayed out like a wounded animal on the ground. It couldn't possibly be true…it must be a lie. It must be a lie!
He scrambled for the book, fumbling with the pages and nearly tearing them out to get back to the first page—the first paragraph and read it again. Once, twice, three times—no matter how many times Russia looked at it, he could discern no other meaning. America had been captured. America had been captured the day he disappeared and he wasn't a traitor.
He needed to get this book to England, as soon as possible. Russia rose to his feet, fully prepared to take the book across the Dead Zone himself, even at the risk of being discovered. He coiled his scarf tighter around his neck and strode to the front door…before suddenly realizing that he was acting irrational.
Suicidal.
What was he thinking?
Of all the stupid, impulsive things to do, Russia had never though that he would willingly throw himself to the enemy just because of a little book, no matter how important. He just willingly nearly condemned their side to defeat.
Russia breathed in deeply, sat down and tried to calm himself down, holding the little book to his chest. Think, he told himself. Don't be stupid. What are you trying to pull? He squeezed his eyes shut and released a long, deep breath—this war was making him reckless as well as paranoid.
He could call England on Friday to let him know the situation. For now…he could read the book. He could figure out what happened to America. That was what he had to do. Besides, it might not even be true.
Years of hoping, hoping America would appear from the woodwork to help them, feeling more and more despondent when he didn't show, wondering what was taking so long, knowing how strong and clever America could be, he could escape anything, where the fuck was he, maybe his thirst for power finally dominated the rational part of his mind, maybe he was willing to accept pain for the world—
Russia quickly turned around and walked back to the desk, sliding smoothly into the seat, nose already buried in the book as he did so.
At the moment the subject is unconscious, under the influence of a powerful anesthetic—however I heard that it took four of these powerful doses to get him fully under. Even now his brain waves are much more active than any human being's I've ever seen. Simply astounding. Though I do wonder how this strange creature—
Russia gritted his teeth at those words. Every country hated being called a 'creature', or an 'it', or anything else that referred to them being less human than their people.
—will act when it awakens. The only thing I have on this country is the file that was constructed over a long period of time about it…
The book continued on this vein for a while, and the next few entries were all about brain waves and DNA and blood samples. Extremely bored with this, Russia flipped forwards a bit and stopped when he noticed a change, something that stood out to him.
March 3, 2020
Entry 8
The subject woke up today. And he is nothing like I expected.
So America was a 'he' now, was he?
I expected him to be wild and incomprehensible, but also vacant and unaware, all the power and intelligence of the United States packed into his head. I expected him to a little insane, sick in the brain with multiple mental disorders—what I got was not like I expected. First, this America is very aware, and very much understandable. He is rather like an overgrown teenager, though I suppose that this makes sense. He is a rather young country, compared to other nations such as England and Italy.
I questioned him, and though he wasn't very forthcoming with information…it seemed as though he was reluctant to talk because he was indignant at getting taken captive. Which does not make all that much sense to me; he was told that if we did this America would be helping the country, expanding his reign—wouldn't he want that? It does not make much sense at all.
I have simply decided that America is an odd creature. I cannot possibly fathom what goes on in his confusing brain.
When I asked Boss K (Confused, Russia tilted his head, then decided that this 'boss K' was just the boss of the facility) if there were any other countries out there, he responded that the president had already asked that question. Apparently America's response was as follows:
At this point Russia shut the book and placed it back onto the table, and simply stared at it.
Whatever the book said next was the deciding factor—whether or not Russia would actually believe that America was free of guilt. If America responded that there were such things as other countries to take the heat off of him…well, then the bastard had a lot to answer for. If he said that there weren't such things as countries, then…well…
Russia had been blaming an innocent man for the last fifteen years.
He didn't really want to know, either—both options were possibilities. If America had told them—well, it seemed a little odd that the people hadn't picked the other countries up if he had, but there was the possibility that they were going to, but had been rudely interrupted by the fall of Washington DC. If he hadn't told, then America had done so at the expense of his own health—if there were other countries there along with him, that would shift some of the focus off of him.
The large nation wasn't sure whether he wanted to know or not. He had spent so many years lashing, so angry at America for betraying them…
But he had to know.
Russia picked up the book and flipped back to the page.
"No. Just me, since I'm the most powerful country right now."
Oh, America…
Hand pressed over his mouth, Russia continued to read the entry, eyes melancholy.
Boss K does believe that this is true, but he's not sure. He says the president is going to try and smoke the rest of the countries out, if there are any. I'm not so sure that this is a good idea, however; we are spending quite a bit of money and resources on just this one subject. Besides, any other countries would be unpredictable, since their natures could be more violent than America's. And they're not loyal to America, either; if we created a whole army of clones, they could all easily turn on us. When I raised these concerns to Boss K, he simply shrugged and said, "I'm not going to argue with Mr. President. But you do bring up some good points. I'll try and talk to him."
This Alistair was smarter than Russia had originally assumed; he wasn't just an ambitious, lunatic scientist. He was calculating and intelligent, and thought out every move—if America was still in that lab, Alistair would be an obstacle that they would have to break—quickly. Russia sighed and began flipping through the pages. The latest entry was July 7 2023. Curious, Russia began to read.
July 7, 2023
Entry 673
The resistance draws nearer to this lab every day.
Startled, his eyes widened. That had to mean that the lab where America was…was in their territory! Eagerly Russia read, though it was a little slow because the language was German, and the handwriting wasn't exactly neat, which frustrated him beyond words.
America has been with us for over three years, though it seems like such a short time. I still remember the first day he woke very clearly; Koliabskaia was knocked against the wall because the subject's heart had turned black with fire. My dear Shay and I still hated each other quite strongly; I see now that it, as Von Arx calls it, was 'sexual tension cloaking the air so thickly that everyone—except Shay and I—could fairly touch it'. Now our love is calm and peaceful. Sort of.
And Mikhail Ziegel…
There was nothing else after this sentence, which left Russia wondering who this 'Ziegel' person was. He suddenly realized that if he ever actually read the rest of the journal he would probably learn, but at the moment he didn't quite care. If the guy wasn't important to America's situation, then he didn't care.
I can still remember the screams from the night afterwards, when the entirety of Washington DC was destroyed, and all that was left was a great scar in the ground.
America was never the same after that. His movements were slow and lethargic; eyes dimmed all the time. I am loathe to say this, but I found myself mourning the loss of the fierce individual he had once been. However it is too late; I doubt I will ever see America recover.
Russia's heart leapt into his throat; his eyes froze on that sentence. It took a moment, but his eyes slowly began to travel down the page, unconsciously mouthing along with the words.
If the resistance were to find America…they would be sure to win. Even with his heart a blackened coal in his chest, he is a powerful influence on his people. The best thing to do would be to cut our losses and kill him. However we are not quite sure how this would be possible.
Russia smirked at that; there was no way to kill a country unless the nation itself was obliterated. But…even as he thought this, a small thread of niggling doubt. Countries themselves didn't exactly understand what they were…and this lab had, supposedly (it might not be true! He reminded himself)done multiple experiments on America. If anyone could have discovered what made countries tick, it would have been these people—which meant they would also know how to shut them down.
In all these years of experimenting and studying and trying to unravel the complex mind of this country…I have come to one conclusion: he is fiercely loyal to his people, his friends, and his ideals.
He is even loyal enough to throw himself to the dogs to protect the people important to him. Perhaps it is foolishness, to trust someone so fully…but I think it is desperation, reaching for someone to cling to. America is afraid of being alone, and I fear this forced isolation is slowly driving him insane.
We have a solution for America, one that will allow us to escape cleanly and get rid of him without being discovered. Perhaps it is also an act of mercy.
I can only hope that what we are doing is right.
And the final entry ended.
Hey all, me again! :D
I hope this chapter cleared up what happened to America somewhat...and raised some new questions ;). He's not dead yet, but maybe he will be. Yes, those two boys are the two sides of America. They're actually very sweet, I promise. Uh.
Anyway thanks to everyone who reviewed!
Dragonfire78: OMG thank you! The files have been revealed to you, and also what happened to America. Well, not really. Heh. Thanks again!
GenderBender25: I hope this chapter cleared up any confusion; Russia, who has been kind of...not mentally stable in the past? Anyway, he assumes that America went insane with power and was willing to go through all that pain for more power. Also, Russia was really looking for someone to put the blame on. The war has been hard on him :/. Don't worry, America will...actually, hmmmm...thanks for the review!
The Rambler13: YAY! I'm glad you got one. That's very sweet of you; gives an author like me warm fuzzies :). Byyyye!
LinkyOkumura37 (Ao no Exorcist fan, can you relate?): Aaigha;ojfwea it's always nice to get reviews from new people. I'm glad you like the story so far! Hope I continue not to disappoint.
Anyway, thank you to all the people who faved/subscribed! You guys keep me writing!
IceEckos12