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

WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER! Beyond this point, FRANCE WILL BE A SOMEWHAT PINING IDIOT. If you have problems with France being a pining idiot, then please SKIP TILL THE NEXT PAGE BRAKE. BREAK. WHATEVER. If you want a summary of what's going on during the Pining Moment, please shoot me a PM and I will be happy to summarize it for you.

Dear Mon Cher,

I miss you dearly. See, I am even writing in this boorish language you call English because I miss you so much. If it can even be considered a language at all. That was a little joke, my love, no harm was meant for your delicate feelings.

Things have been dull while you have been away. I must admit our continuous arguments highly entertaining; they challenged me, and challenged you as well. There is something, though, I believe the both of us missed as we argued; our childish spats clearly masked our love for each other; it was so transparent, even Italy could see it. Which is just embarrassing, to tell you the truth. We truly thought we hated each other…but that is what made us so passionate. There is nothing more intense than hatred and love. Perhaps that is why, over the past fifteen years, my love for you has not changed at all…if anything, it has grown stronger.

I believe that we were meant to last; not like a beautiful flower, which blooms in brilliant colors before wilting with winter, but like an old forest; ancient and steadfast, filled with mystery and ethereal splendor. But our love is also like an intense forest fire, burning hot and passionate, flickering and dancing sporadically. It took me so long to realize just how much I loved you, even though your cooking is terrible; the last time we saw each other, standing on the tarmac…that is when I realized it. I'm almost appalled at my taste, but you can't help who you fall for, I suppose.

Now, though, I don't know if I will ever get the chance to tell you. I don't know how you are; if you are alive, if you are well…so what I'm trying to say, England, is don't you fucking die on me you selfish bastard.

Please finish quickly, so that we may be together again. Perhaps then I will finally be able to tell you how I feel.

Forever yours,

France

P.S. I mean it. Don't make me start another 100-year war. I will do it.

France's pen hovered over the last sentence, and he stared down at the paper with deep concentration, eyebrows furrowed. Finally he let out a soft, bitter sigh and gently set the pen back down on the table, before very angrily folding the letter, as though it had done him personal harm. Then he took out an elegant looking envelope embossed with curling French, and placed the folded letter inside. Finally France stamped a wax seal on the flap—he'd decided long ago that America's way of licking the envelope shut was barbaric—and placed it on the desk with all the other envelopes, all addressed to England.

There were only five of them; he considered it pathetic that he was pining after England, yes, but he couldn't help it. Thank God he was pretty certain he would never send them, and England would never receive them. However sometimes he just had to write tell the Englishman the words that ran circles through him until they finally splattered down on paper.

Before DC, France had been quite certain that he didn't love England—he had been certain that he could hold no feelings for anyone anymore. How ironic, He'd thought, that the country of romance feels no love for anyone.

But then France had seen England, standing in front of him, ready to say goodbye…and the thought of never seeing him again had broken something inside. It was at that moment that France knew, without a doubt, that he was deeply in love with England—and that was why he couldn't fall in love with anyone else. Because he already had someone.

(For a while he had felt a little annoyed at England, because now he couldn't flirt with any of the other nations without feeling a sharp pang of guilt.)

It made sense, when he thought about it—he'd go out with someone, then would come home and would make fun of England for not having a date. That was how it always was—hadn't he always preferred England's company over everyone else's? Perhaps the only one he had felt different about was Canada—but that was because the boy was like a son to him.

He frowned as his train of thought touched on the younger nation; the first year Canada had been back, he had been restless and quick to anger, no doubt because he had gotten left behind, forced to watch as America battled his foes. Then, halfway through the second year, his adopted son had mysteriously vanished—and France was certain he knew where Canada had gone. France had actually been preparing to leave for America to find the impulsive blond right before the Wall went up…

Of course he couldn't blame Canada—every day he himself had wanted to fly into the warring nation and beat the tar out of his dear England away, but he hadn't, because he knew they needed an outside man. But Canada was still young, and he still believed himself to be invincible…he didn't realize the consequences of his actions. He didn't realize what others had sacrificed to get him out of America.

France shook his head, forcing his thoughts out of his mind, before sliding gracefully out of his chair and walking towards the door. There was a meeting in Canada that would happen in two days, and he still needed to catch a plane to Vancouver.

~CTF~

It had been almost seven years since France had had a meeting in Canada; he had fought tooth and nail with everyone around him to keep it so. He knew the reason why they wanted to be so close to the border—they wanted to see what was going on, ogle the Americans trapped on the other side like they were animals.

France didn't want that to happen—and he knew that Canada wouldn't want that to happen to his brother, either. Just the thought started a fire in his belly that he thought long had gone out.

"Hello, France. Any news from America, aru?" China did not mince words or exchange formalities—not before he was assured that nothing had occurred since the last time he'd asked. The old nation was probably the most worried about the whole situation—probably because he had seen terrible things in his lifetime. This was no different.

He felt for the older nation, he really did. He had lived a much shorter time than China, and France was pretty sure that if he were to become a human being, he would have PTSD to the max. But still, though—he could at least pretend to care about the young nation's fate.

France had to admit though; it wasn't that uncommon an occurrence. In fact, the reason he was the go-to guy for information on America was because he was really the only one who truly cared what happened. And even then, it was mostly about England. Feelings for America had plunged from tolerated to bane of the earth in the last fifteen years.

This tension, this war, this uncertainty—it had changed all of them. Made them a more tense and suspicious world.

"Hello China." France responded politely, being as formal as he could with his greeting. Normally he would be flirting heavily with the older nation, but…ever since he had uncovered his love for England, it had taken all the fun out the playful banter. "I'll say when it is my turn to speak; I don't want to repeat myself a hundred times."

Indeed, that was what had happened at the first meeting—all of the countries had gone up to France asking about America, so by the time it was finally his turn to speak everyone knew the information anyway. As the years passed he got a bit wiser about it, holding off until the actual meeting began before answering any questions.

China already knew this, but he had always been very persistent about it; even now, he forced out a choked laugh and patted France on the shoulder. "Of course, aru. Now if you'll excuse me, I must find someone…"

France sighed, watching the raven-haired man's retreating figure. After all these years, he and the other countries had slowly grown apart. It wasn't his fault, per se, but his only real friends in the World meetings had been England, America and Canada. Sure, he was close to the others, but they were always suspicious of him and his wandering hands. Not that the fear was unfounded, but…

Then he frowned, remembering—China had been just as lonely as him, recently, because Japan had decided to completely cut himself off from the rest of the world after the Wall went up. Maybe he should make an effort to be friendlier…

"Oi, oi! France!"

France turned to see Spain and Prussia; his face broke into a wide grin. "Espagne! Prusse!" Ah, how had he forgotten about these two? Happily he flounced over to them, producing a rose from nowhere. "How good it is to see you!"

(Perhaps it was because his friendship with these two was shallow and fluffy and not nearly as deep as his relationship with England, Canada, or even America. Or maybe because he hadn't seen these two in almost ten years. He didn't know.)

"Can it, France." Prussia responded, smirking widely. "The awesome me always makes things good! Kesesese!"

Spain latched onto France's arm, smiling cheerfully. He swore, the shorter brunette was like a little spot of sunlight amongst the depressing atmosphere. "You too, France!"

The country of romance smiled at the two of them, glad for the distraction. Lately he'd been thinking of nothing but dark thoughts, and he knew that if anyone could cheer him up, it would be his two best friends. Well…he still thought of them as his best friends, despite the fact that it'd been a while since they'd seen each other. "Come, take a seat!" He gestured to a chair, and then sat in his own—Spain was comfortable enough with him to sit on his lap. Prussia plopped into the aforementioned chair, still grinning like a maniac. This was a common enough sight that no one gave the trio a second glance.

Before France could even say anything, Prussia spoke up. "Listen France, tomato-brain and I have been worried about you." Forwards as always, the self-proclaimed king of awesome dove right into the topic he wanted to speak about. "Seriously, you need a holiday or something. You've been pining over the brow-bastard for much too long, and you're starting to become a serious buzz-kill."

France frowned slightly, already gearing up to protest—yeah, so he had been on a 15-year-streak of abstinence, and he'd written a letter or two, but that was certainly no reason for concern!

Spain sighed, reached over and slapped Prussia over the back of the head, while France blinked in bemusement. "Please, Gil, you suck at subtlety." The brunette settled back down into France's lap, before saying his piece. "What the idiot means to say is that we're really concerned about you." That soft note of concern in Spain's voice was what made France believe him—after all, the Spaniard was honest to a fault, and unlike some other countries, he actually cared about people.

"Je, uh…" The blond blinked again, staring at his two friends, honestly confused. "I did not…"

"Think we noticed?" This time, Prussia would not be stopped. "Listen, buster, we're you're best friends. You may not think that you're doing it, but you're way more serious than you were fifteen years ago. And yeah, we know you loved—er, love—that brow bastard," ("England," France muttered, frowning slightly) "But it's ruling your life. All you ever do anymore is worry about America, or worry about England, or worry about both." Suddenly the silverette seemed very serious. "You need to stop worrying, or you'll become old and grumpy like crabby old Iggy. Have sex again, flirt with people. Put down your research on that electrical field. Move on."

When France opened his mouth to protest—there was a freaking war going on, he couldn't just get complacent or stop worrying—Spain quickly cut him off, pressing a finger to his lips. "You don't have to forget about them. But this is unhealthy. You don't sleep well, you don't eat enough…we're very concerned for you."

There was a brief pause—France looked back and forth between the two of them incredulously, trying to remember the last time he'd had a full nights rest or a home cooked meal. To his surprise he couldn't recall anything, only endless nights in front of a computer and seemingly unlimited cups of coffee. "Do you two really mean that?"

Prussia nodded seriously. "It's so unawesome to see you act like this. Man up, or I'll force you."

"And I won't stop him." Spain finished dryly.

France bit his lip and looked away, avoiding their searching eyes. The words rang true with him, but… "Is it wrong," He whispered at last, "To miss them?"

Spain turned around and hugged France, who tensed slightly at the unexpected contact, and a second later Prussia joined him. "Of course it's okay!" The brunette said, squeezing France's shoulders—the blond relaxed, an old feeling bubbling up in his chest—warmth. Comfort. It was a luxury he'd long since forgotten about.

"Just…" Prussia's voice filtered into his ears. "Try to remember that we're here for you too, okay?"

France smiled into their arms, guilt pooling in the base of his stomach—how long had they watched him, noticed his cut off, emotionless self? How long had they stood by, waiting for him to snap out of his stupor? "Thank you." He said quietly. "I'm sorry to have concerned you so."

Prussia let go, still smirking, and ruffled France's hair like he was a little kid. "Don't mention it, kesesese."

The blond smiled uncertainly at his friend—yes, he understood now…but just because he did, didn't mean that the feeling of emptiness had gone away. Now it just seemed more yawning, like a gaping wound that couldn't be closed. Could he really let go? It seemed like such an impossible task…

"Remember, though." Spain smiled cheerfully, seeming to read France's thoughts. He was oddly perceptive like that. "Recovery won't just take overnight. But we'll be there for you."

Prussia caught on quickly. "Yeah. So we should go drinking after the meeting together. Because it'll be a good bonding experience."

France chuckled half-heartedly. "You're just looking for an excuse to drink beer."

"Of course not!" The silverette cackled, throwing back his head. "Since when has the awesome me ever needed an excuse to drink beer?"

Spain smirked lazily and pointed to over his shoulder. "Since he was your brother."

Prussia froze and cursed, before glancing up to look at his younger brother; Germany was tapping his foot in annoyance, one eyebrow twitching. France looked up at the nation, tilting his head curiously—there was something different about him…something about his face…

France spotted it, and his eyebrows shot up; before he could stop himself, he blurted, "You seem to be missing an eyebrow." Open mouth, insert foot. He clamped his lips shut, silently berating himself for his rudeness.

Germany twitched, sending a chilly glare France's way (though he didn't react, long since used to the taller blonde's ways), not even bothering to speak. Still looking a little affronted, the German broke eye contact and placed one hand on Prussia's shoulder, catching his older brother's attention. "Remember our deal." He growled, furrowing his eyebrows—or attempting to, at least. It was rather comical when only one of them was working.

"Sure, West." The Prussian looked a little embarrassed as he shrugged off the hand. "Whatever you say."

He nodded, before turning sharply and walking in the general direction of Italy. France watched the march-like stride curiously for a second, before leaning forwards slightly (forcing Spain forwards as well). "What happened to his eyebrow?"

Prussia glanced towards Germany's retreating figure, as though making sure he wasn't turning around to stand like a thundercloud over their conversation. Seemingly satisfied, the silverette let out a soft cackle and grinned widely. "It's friggin' hilarious, isn't it? My handiwork." He sniffed and settled proudly into his seat. "Awesome, as usual."

"He looked angry enough to kill." Spain responded, fascination clear in his voice. "I haven't seen him so mad since we finished off his rare beer collection that one night."

The three of them all smiled dreamily at the memory. "Good times." France murmured.

Prussia nodded, equally wistful. "I was in a body cast for a month, but it was so worth it."

Then they returned to the previous topic, reverie completed.

"Well, me and West heard about how potatoes explode in the microwave, right?" He grinned at their horrified expressions—whenever Prussia said 'explode', it usually ended up with someone getting hurt or mentally scarred for life. "I'd already tried it earlier, but I was really disappointed by the reaction. Me, being the awesome older brother, didn't want to disappoint West!"

Spain put his head in his hands. "I can already see that this is going to end terribly." He moaned. France patted his back comfortingly.

"So I put a bomb in the potato, stuck it in the microwave, and set off the explosive manually!" Prussia's grinned widened to an unreal proportion, then suddenly dimmed. "But he was a lot closer than I thought he was to the microwave. And I sort of…kind of burnt off one of his eyebrows."

Spain let out another moan, and France placed his hand in front of his mouth, chuckling quietly. It was times like these, times where he could laugh in the middle of this horrible situation, times where could simply have a nice conversation and enjoy himself…it was times like these that he realized that maybe things weren't so hopeless.

"…It's a win-win situation."

Russia nodded. "I think…it's a good plan of attack. It's not fool proof, but…"

"It fulfills its purpose." The man next to him finished, nodding, grimy black hair flopping down around his ears. "I like it. Short, simple…" His grin became feral. "And ultimately very satisfying. I'm only disappointed I won't get to see you point a gun to that bastard's face."

England chuckled. "Now, now, Clarence. This is not a vengeful attack, this is an attack meant to reclaim America and free him from his imprisonment. Do you—"

And then Russia suddenly jumped, surprising both England and Clarence—they both moved backwards and withdrew their weapons, looking around for the attacker. It took a second for them to realize that nothing had happened, and that the large nation was still standing there, looking a little confused. Clarence relaxed first, cautiously lowering his gun so it hung limply by his side; England didn't move, sharp green eyes taking in the area.

War had changed all of them.

"What's the deal, Ivan?" Clarence groused angrily, almost glaring at the taller man. "You know you can't just do stuff like that!"

The tall blond tilted his head curiously, eyes unfocused as they stared at the wall. It was only at that moment that the other two realized that the Russian was carefully fondling something in his pocket. England lowered his weapon and stepped forwards, but was still obviously cautious. "Ivan?" He said carefully.

The Russian blinked and turned to look at him, childish face furrowed with confusion. "There's something in my pocket."

The two put up their weapons up again and took a step backwards.

"Not like that!" Russia protested, waving the hand that was not in his pocket in a placating manner. He slowly removed the other hand, which was clenched around whatever had been put in his coat. "I just…I did not put it there." England and Clarence tensed when Russia slowly opened up his fist, before shuffling forwards to peer inside, still wary.

It was a flash drive, with a little sticky note attached to one side.

"Who's it from?" The raven-haired man said, now more curious than ready to shoot.

Russia removed the sticky note and brought it up so he could see it; his lips moved silently as he read…but as he did, his eyebrows slowly furrowed and then rose up, and his pace slowed too. Finally when he seemed to have finished, he stopped and stared with shock at the bottom of the note, eyes wide.

England, now more curious than ever, jumped forwards and tugged the sticky note out of Russia's hand, who released it easily enough—though there was a blank expression of shock on his face, as though he was still processing what he had just read. Ignoring the now still Russian, he carefully began to read the note, which was actually quite short.

Dear Russia,

I know you're probably confused about this flash drive and this letter. Now that I think about it, England probably it reading this too. Hey! Great to talk to you both again. Well, not really. Still, though, it makes me happy to know that you're reading my letter :).

I'm sorry for not following your instructions. I just…couldn't sit around while my brother is in pain, or you guys are fighting a war. It's not something I can do. You also may be wondering why it took so long for me to get in contact with you; truth is, I've been following you for a year or so. I just didn't want to risk blowing both our cover's in the event that we got caught.

I sent this letter because I noticed that you'd finally managed to snag the stuff about the Wall (good for you! That takes some serious preparation :)), and I realized that you were probably going to leave back for the West soon. I hope you find the information I left in the flash drive of some use.

Sincerely,

Maple

Before he could stop himself, England whispered, "Canada…?" and caught Russia's gaze. Confused purple stared into his emerald eyes. "He came back?" The Brit murmured, furrowing his eyebrows.

Clarence glanced between the pair with a confused expression on his face; he knew his place, and as the head of the army, he was in the know about a lot of things other people weren't. But still, there were some things that he definitely could not look at. Judging by both their expressions and the silent conversation going on, this was something a little more personal than he really needed to know. "Uh…do I need to leave?"

The two other countries jumped, a little startled, obviously having forgotten that there was a third person in the room. "Uh…" England shook himself, not quite ridding himself of the slightly dazed expression. "Yes. Please. We'll call you back when we're finished here."

"Take your time." The raven-haired man said as he began backing out of the room. "Seriously, you two look like you need to take a minute. I can just check on the guys, maybe go to bed if I need to."

And then he left.

For several seconds after the door snapped shut, the two nations stood there, staring at each other, a silent conversation going on in their steady gazes. They were both unsure, slightly hopeful…and suspicious. What if it wasn't Canada? What if it was some sort of imposter?

Finally, England threw up his hands and roared, "That stupid boy!"

Russia sighed and tilted his head tiredly. "He has a point. Did you expect him to stay idle while his brother was in pain?"

"I…" The blond sighed and ran a hand threw his hair furiously. "I expected him…when he and America were children, he was always the obedient child. I expected him to listen to me once more, not to take stupid risks!"

Russia removed the flask from his coat pocket and took a long draught from it. He slowly lowered the metallic container and said carefully, "He is young. He is…" His face screwed up with pain. "Was not much different from America. And it is too late. He is here, so we might as well see what he has to say to us."

"But what if it's not him?" England put his head in his hands, and then the root of the problem showed itself, after the pure anger had been peeled away. "I wish everything was back to normal! I wish we didn't have to second-guess every goddamn thing we do!" Russia seemed unsurprised by his outburst, and simply stood there patiently as the angry Brit ranted. "If only we could…" He released a long breath, panting heavily with anger, though it was slowly lightening. There were no other noises as he calmed himself, only the heavy weight of Russia against the wall.

"Russia, I'm tired." He said finally, eyes half-lidded. "Of everything. I…just want to go home."

The large nation walked forwards and wrapped his fellow nation in a quiet, understanding hug; they shared this burden, this crushing weight, and they both understood the awfulness that went along with it. This sentiment was passed as Russia stood there, simply hugging the man he had come to put complete faith in during the war. Here was his comrade in arms; his brother in every sense but blood. They fought the same army, they shed the same tears, they stood alone in an uncertain world.

They stood there for several minutes, taking comfort in the other's presence. They both knew that the war was taking everything out of them, and eventually all they would have was each other.

"…let's take a look at that flash drive now, da?" Russia finally broke away, and stepped back, watching England with steady eyes. He carefully lifted the little black drive up to the light, smooth and seemingly tiny under the harsh light.

England stared down at it and sighed, before smiling softly and nodding, reaching to take the device.

There was no room for fear in war.

~CtF~

Approximately 2 weeks before

A man stood silently on the curb of a street, waiting patiently for the light to turn red. His arms hung limply at his sides, and his dark brown eyes peered up from underneath long eyelashes. His hair was cropped short and was a dull, normal shade of brown. A dark red t-shirt lightly hugged his thin torso, and he wore a pair of dark blue jeans. All in all, he was probably the most boring person anyone could ever see; no one ever looked twice, no one did a double-take. There appeared to be nothing extraordinary about him.

However if you had looked closely, you might notice the odd curl doing its best to form on his forehead, though was failing rather miserably due to the fact that the man's hair was so short. However usually no one looked closely, so no one had really noticed.

This man had no idea how long he'd been waiting for the light to turn green, only that it had been a very long time. He let out a quiet sigh, lips curving downwards, keeping his dull brown eyes fixed on the light, hoping that it would change soon. He was a very patient person, but there was only so far his patience took him.

He suddenly perked up when he heard something—the sound of footsteps? They were coming from behind him. Before he turned around, though, he deduced what he could simply from listening. The person is big. They're walking quickly, they're in a hurry. However they're not insanely loud. Actually… the man's eyebrows furrowed slightly in confusion. I think I recognize…

"Hello."

The man jumped when he realized that the approaching person had gotten close without him even noticing. More surprising still, he recognized that voice—in a different setting and a different tone, but he definitely recognized that voice.

He turned around, instinctively looking up to meet war-hardened, childish violet. His eyes widened slightly, before he managed to keep his reaction under control and greet the 'stranger'. "Hello." He said in his neutral, monotonous voice, before turning back to look at the stoplight (now hoping that it wouldn't change).

There was an awkward silence. The man waited for the taller to speak, not really wanting to breach the pause he had created so carefully. Finally, the pale, blond man shifted in his boots and trench coat and asked awkwardly. "How long has it been that color?"

The man resisted the urge to smirk at the desperate attempt to shatter his perfect silence. Though the taller man didn't recognize him, he felt slightly smug at the small victory—for years this guy had been a source of awkwardly –made pauses that refused to fix themselves. Never mind that they hadn't seen each other in nearly fifteen years.

(Well, the taller man hadn't seen him in fifteen years. He had…kept an eye on the older man, so to speak.)

Languidly he sat on that awkward pause for another moment, enjoying the taller man's squirming, before saying quietly. "Quite a while. It should change soon."

The taller man nodded, and they lapsed into another silence, only slightly less tense than the one beforehand. The shorter brunette silently noted his companion's nervous eyes, flying around the street, obviously looking for a threat. It took him a second to realize—he got it. His eyes widened as he stared at the taller nation. He'll be leaving tomorrow.

The brunette made a split-second decision just as the light changed. He turned to the blond and smiled quietly, freezing him in place. "I hope you enjoy the rest of your day."

He blinked in surprise. "A-And you."

Then the shorter man turned on his heel and strode across the street, leaving the taller man standing there, staring after him with a shocked expression on his pale face. It was only too late that the man realized that the light had made a quick change back to red as he had been watching the normal, boring man's departure.

Russia's face darkened with fury. It was his last day here, couldn't he ever catch a friggin break? For once, couldn't the light just stay green? With a sudden realization, he turned to the stoplight. It was his last day here…

(The next day, many would puzzle over the fact that a stoplight had been torn up from the ground and tossed onto the street.)

~0~

The brunette sat on the top of Russia's apartment, swinging his legs back and forth over the edge of the building. He knew that no one could see him—no one ever looked for a person like him. No one ever looked twice.

The dark wind ruffled what was left of his hair, and he sighed and ran a hand through his short locks—he still regretted the decision he'd made to cut it, but it had been a necessary evil. His brother, after all, was a criminal. They shared the same face. He had at least taken the last words his mentor had told him seriously and had done his best to change his appearance. It had worked, for the most part. There was still that stupid curl, that no matter how many hair-products he took to it wouldn't flatten.

He breathed the evening air deeply and leaned onto his elbows, staring out over the city. It had changed so much in the last few years—he remembered when American cities used to be filled with life and laughter, and bright lights that shone as vibrantly as the people within. Now there was nothing but silence, oppressive and hard to breathe in, like a sickness on the air.

He hated it. He hated what this place had become.

His eyes, which were no longer brown now that his contacts had been removed (he hated those things—the thought of putting plastic in his eyes was not appetizing, but he did it because he was forced to), flickered down to his watch. He knew that he needed to wait for a bit so that Russia could fall asleep before he went inside, but he also knew that he needed to finish up before curfew, or he'd be playing a game of cat and mouse with the cameras again. Not that it was hard or anything—it was just annoying.

It seemed to be the right time. He would have liked to wait a little longer, but there wasn't much he could do about it. With a sigh the dyed-brunette stood up, stretching his black-clad limbs, before turning and putting his heels on the edge of the building, completely unperturbed by the height. The worst thing that would happen to him at this height was a broken bone or two. Nothing to worry about.

He stepped backwards an inch, and allowed himself to fall.

After barely a second of the heart-stopping free fall, his descent was suddenly halted. He had landed with almost catlike grace on the window ledge maybe five feet below him—though he still had to reach out and steady himself against the closed window. For a breathless second he teetered uncertainly, before he finally settled.

"Phew." He whispered, before getting to work on disabling the window alarm and undoing the lock. It took him a minute, but he finally succeeded, and slipped inside with his famed silence that almost bordered on invisibility.

His former friend and now secret ally was sleeping on the couch, a small leather book in one hand; it was obviously what he had been reading before he had finally fallen asleep. War had been kind to Russia; he had barely changed at all. The brunette sighed—he thought he knew the reason why. It was because the cold nation had nearly gone insane with all the crazy stuff that happened to him—he was right at home in an environment like this.

Russia shifted and muttered something, which suddenly reminded him of the time. It was best if they didn't meet—he had spent years making sure that no one knew that he was here. Besides, as much as he wanted to accompany the older nation back to the rebellion…he knew he still had stuff to do here.

He knelt down next to the couch, rummaging around in his pockets. It took him a minute, but he finally found what he had been looking for—a tiny black flash drive with a post-it note attached. He re-read the note, just to make sure that he had said everything he had needed to say, before nodding in satisfaction and carefully reaching forwards and easing open one of Russia's pockets. It took every bit of his stealth to put it inside—he knew that the older nation was an extremely light sleeper, and this war had certainly not helped.

Finally satisfied, he leaned backwards, crossing his arms on his knees. For a second he simply watched the blond sleep with steady, fond eyes, reminiscing, remember lighter, happier days of trust and comfort, where there was no deception.

He jumped as Russia suddenly shifted and rolled slightly, realizing that it was probably time for him to go. He paused, though, when the leather book slipped off and fell to the floor, landing open on the floor on the exact page Russia had been reading.

The brunette struggled with himself for a second, staring at the book. It was really none of his business…all he had come to do was drop off the flash drive, not pry into Russia's personal life. And yet…the book was sitting there, getting damaged as its spine stretched dangerously, threatening to snap in two. He couldn't just leave it. Cautiously he picked it up, and while doing so he peeked inside for just a second.

And promptly did a double take.

He had spotted a word amongst the German words—one that he understood quite clearly. 'Amerika.'

But…

"Shit." He muttered under his breath, staring at the foreign words running across the page. He didn't speak German! He didn't write it, and…this obviously had something to do with America, and—and!

He forced himself to calm down. There was no point in getting angry. No point at all. Very calmly—and jerkily—he placed the book on Russia's chest, making sure not to lose the older nation's spot. Then he turned away, took a deep breath, and walked back towards the window, motions stiff with anger.

German!

He fumed over the language as he climbed out the window and leaped to the top of the building. Of all the languages, it had to be German!

And then Canada disappeared into the night.

Hey, so, I'm late. This was because I was traveling around the country for a few weeks. But here's the update!

I was actually really hesitant to post the first part of this chapter, simply because I thought France was being a bit too...piney? If that's a word? But I went ahead with it, because France has always had England so obviously he's going to have some separation issues. Good thing he's got Prussia and Spain. Anyway, so CANADA.

BABS.

He cut his hair, and he turned into a badass spy! Aren't we all so happy for him? Not really. Life doesn't get any easier for the poor guy.

HAHA to all of you who read the P.S.! AHAHAHAHA!

Anyway, thanks to everyone who reviewed!

Namaides: Yes I can definitely leave it hanging like that, I'm the author! That's my job! Anyway, I really like drunk!Russia and England too. They were obviously super fun to write.

EmmyKittyAnimeFan: Don't worry, the president gets his just deserts in the end ;). Unfortunately the rest...don't. I was a little uncertain what to do about them, but then I realized that there's always those people who Get Away, and that's what happens. They feel like assholes, but they don't really repent. Disappointing, I know, but there you have it. Um, unfortunately no Alfred hurts today, but definitely next time! Actually, we get a little description of exactly what happened to him during captivity, so you have that to look forward to!

Dragonfire78: I definitely, definitely did get Russia and England drunk in that chapter ;) it was hella fun, let me tell you. I didn't put Belarus feels in this chapter, simply because she's really hard to write, though I might put her in later. As you can see, France fared...well enough, and Canada couldn't handle the distance. Too bad he'll be feeling the consequences soon.

The Rambler13: HETALIA PAINT IT WHITE IS THE FUCKING WEIRDEST MOST AWESOME ANIME MOVIE I HAVE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE and everyone should watch it. Even if it is friggin' bizarre. Anyway, back to the story...I don't know if you read the P.S. last chapter, but that hints to what's going to happen to America. Hah. Hahah.

stardustdestiny: Well, the Wall is pretty strong...I guess you'll just have to see. And as you can tell, Canada is definitely losing it. He's lost it for a while, actually. Poor babs.

GenderBender25: Russia is always drunk. Actually, Russia is always sober, we're just drunk 24/7 and can't tell the difference. What? Oh, and the pickled human thing does actually come up. Not in this book, though. But a lot of people find it creeptastic. No spoilers. Never.

Professor Owlfeather: Dude-just-YESSSSSSSSSS. I have caused FEELS. I can go cry in a corner with happiness now. Join me, I have cookies.

Guest1(Gotta commend you for the super long reviews, btw): On the Legend Trilogy-Antarctica as a superpower? How strange! But definitely not like my story at all, so phew! And I'm actually really surprised that you read my drabble thing, and found that one little chapter! Yes, that was the prequel to this fic. It's not so relevant now-I've cleaned up a lot of it-but there are a crapton of spoilers in there. Shhhh! I actually do touch on 'the end justifies the means', but it's not for another few chapters. Also, the scientists put America in that tube so they could test on him without getting his charming personality 24/7-I dunno if I made this clear, but the scientists were getting too attached to the subject, so the only way they could finish the project was to experiment on him as he was in a coma. They haven't achieved the cloning thing yet, though someone else has. Oops! Spoilers!

LinkyOkumura37: HERE'S YOUR UPDATE DARLING REVIEWER I HOPE IT MAKES YOU HAPPYYYYYYYYY. THANK YOU SO MUUUUCH.

Brackenfern: Uh...didn't you know that torture is the highest form of love? I actually LOVE AMERICA TO DEATH. YAAAAAAY. Not so yay for America though.

Ahah! AHAHAHAH! Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed, I hope your weeks were wonderful!

IceEckos12

P.S. I swear I'm not actually high or drunk right now. I've just had a good couple of days.