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
The lights flickered on.
Ace, the current leader of the Eastern American Republic, set his briefcase down onto the table. Time had been kind to him; he looked almost exactly the same as he did fifteen years ago, except for the grey beginning to pepper his black hair, and the new lines of stress surrounding his cold, ruthless black eyes. His posture also was the same; the gait of a predator, smooth and almost dangerous as he stalked his prey.
This was a side to him many people didn't usually see; his public face was usually a sickly sweet persona, all smiles and charm. However most people now knew the truth behind his grin—the only reason he still kept it up was because he enjoyed it, in a way. Plus, he still needed to practice; he couldn't allow himself to grow soft with this political stability.
At least, those were his excuses. The others found it extremely annoying, which was more likely the reason Ace kept doing it.
Standing next to Ace was a short, scrawny man in an expensive business suit, face almost like a rat's. He didn't walk with nearly the grace the American president did—he more scurried, furthermore adding to the image that he was a rodent. However despite the odd appearance, there was an odd sharpness in his eyes that one would not expect; he was more intelligent than he let on.
This man was Giovanni Piezzo, an Italian, and second in command to the man in charge of everything—including the American takeover. His nickname was 'Ripred', and though the name was based on a character from a book series, it fit him better than anyone was comfortable with.
There was one other person in that tiny room.
"I'm glad you could make it, Mr. Tyson." The quicksilver voice glided gracefully through the air, curling like a snake around Ace's shoulders. The president resisted the strong urge to shiver—this was a man who was even more ruthless than he was, if that was even possible. And he had bombed his own capital—even if it hadn't been his idea, he had still gone through with it.
But even though this man slightly freaked him out, he still couldn't forget his manners. "The pleasure is all mine, sir."
The final man in their group of three was a strange fellow; he had raven-black hair and deep, bottomless black eyes, which seemed to swallow you up in their dark depths. His skin was pale and almost papery thin—he looked ageless. He was dressed in an impeccable black suit and shined black shoes, with Giovanni hovering over one shoulder like a big, dangerous, black cloud.
His name was Lucifer Tero; no one knew his age, his nationality (he had an odd accent, though those who met him could never place it), or even his personality. The people who met him usually refused to talk about him, as though even speaking about the cold, evil man would draw him to them. Actually, Ace was part of that group—Lucifer scared him. He honestly did. Sometimes he imagined that if he even uttered the name, he would find the tall, pale man hovering over his shoulder—no matter where he was.
Again, the crystal clear voice cut into the room. "The rebels have not yet been defeated." It wasn't a question; it was a clear statement embedded with an opening for an explanation. Ace took it without hesitation.
"They are proving stronger than we originally assumed." He curled his lip, silently remembering his arrogant thought to have the rebels defeated within five years. What a fool he'd been then. "They obviously have some previous knowledge of our tactics; they should have fallen by now, but they have better leaders than us." His eyes darkened at the thought of his generals, fat men who had no respect for the army—except for one. The brilliant one, who Lucifer had mysteriously procured for him. "However their supplies have to be running out; we have the manufacturing power, and the weapons. They will not last forever."
The silence that followed this statement nearly made Ace squirm…after all, if Lucifer deemed his words to be inadequate, he could just kill him without a second thought.
It was scary, but it was a fact of life for Ace.
It was Giovanni and not Lucifer who spoke next—the little Italian man watched him with sharp, narrowed eyes as he spoke. "To complete the plan, we need this foothold in America. Can you get it or not?"
Ace watched the Italian derisively—he was not nearly as frightened of this man as he was of Tero. He didn't have to answer—they were technically the same rank in the organization. Giovanni knew this, as Ace didn't exactly try to hide his feelings, which created quite the rub between the two of them. Perhaps it was also because Giovanni also had a bit of hero-worship for Lucifer, so he always tried to puff out his chest and act impressive in front of his boss (the president thought this was rather funny. It was obvious that Lucifer did not care one way or another how his loyal servant acted, as long as he got the job done).
The American president was suddenly made aware of Lucifer's black eyes boring into him—he turned to the leader of the organization and waited respectfully for the man to say something.
"Answer him, Mr. Tyson. If you please."
Ace steeled himself and swallowed his pride, ignoring the triumphant look being shot his way. "Of course I can get it. There is no question about that. But I need time; this cannot be rushed. I'm very sorry, but patience is required for this stage."
Giovanni's hackles rose, and he opened his mouth to speak, obviously ready to rip Ace a new one about patience—but again Lucifer intervened; with a lazy wave of the hand, he stopped the two and said, "Must you two argue?" It was mild, but the warning was clear. "Mr. Piezzo. If time is what it takes, then time is what Mr. Tyson shall have. The end result is the same." But just a second afterwards, his deep black eyes flashed with something—and a chill ran through Ace as he realized that if he didn't knock down the rebels within the next year, he would be dead.
Cowed, Giovanni ducked his head and sat back down…though there was something else in his gaze a hardness that Ace had not expected—as he had already stated, the man worshiped Lucifer. It was hard for him to even get annoyed with his boss. So what has made him like this? Ace knew he didn't' have enough pieces of the puzzle to put it together, but it was still frustrating. It wasn't as though he expected to be brought up to speed about every detail of the mysterious plan, but still, it would have been nice to have some sort of idea why he was fighting this war and wasting the lives of thousands of people.
Instead of letting on to his inner thoughts—which, Ace uncomfortably thought, Lucifer probably has already guessed—he instead inclined his head thankfully. "My gratitude, sir." He hesitated, suddenly uncertain. "I have…just one question though."
Lucifer froze him with a sideways glance; for a second they simply watched each other, the president with some nervousness and fear, the odd leader with no expression at all. Finally he said, "Is this going to be a waste of my time? I am a very busy man, Mr. Tyson."
The warning was clear. But Ace was almost positive that he would have approval to voice his query.
"The…special project you mentioned last time we met." Which had been almost fourteen years ago, not too long before the Wall was put up. "I have…looked for this creature. However I haven't gotten the slightest hint as to where it could be." He paused, trying not to quail under the black gaze. "Is there somewhere I should start?"
Giovanni started and glanced back and forth between the two with sudden confusion, and it took Ace a moment to realize that Lucifer must not have mentioned his side job. The leader had actually told the president that it was okay if Ace didn't find what he was looking for—after all, the creature was apparently something of immense and unimaginable power.
But still, it was a little odd that Giovanni didn't know. The two were practically attached at the hip.
Lucifer tilted his head in thought, oblivious to the goings-on around him. After a moment he finally said, "The creature takes on human form. It would be around…thirty years of age. If I had to guess correctly. It would be a male, and would also be very smart and very dangerous." He fixed Ace with his cold gaze. "Hopefully you can find him."
Ace mentally went over the description in his head as he nodded—it didn't actually sound that dissimilar from America, the nation-human he had kidnapped a while ago. He had actually lost that advantage after the rebels had taken over the land where America was being experimented on, which was a shame, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He had mentioned the nation to Lucifer—the man had seemed mildly interested, but in the end had dismissed the subject as unimportant.
"Is there anything else I'm forgetting, Mr. Piezzo?" The president was startled out of his thoughts by Lucifer's chilling voice cutting through the air, and he focused back in immediately.
The little Italian shook his head, obviously still in shock from the previous revelation that his boss had been keeping secrets from him. Ace did not envy Lucifer—he was going to get an earful the minute they left the room. Unless, of course, Giovanni's hero worship kept him from saying anything to Lucifer.
Seemingly oblivious to the feeling of his closest lackey, Lucifer just smiled. "Meeting adjourned."
The lights flickered off.
Ace nearly gasped into the darkness, eyes widening—how did Lucifer expect him to find his way out of here? The meeting room was huge; it had once housed the meetings of America and the other ambassadors. It had been refurbished of course, but they had kept the long, expensive table and the mini desks, which was an obstacle course even in daylight. There was no way he would make it out within the hour, but if he didn't leave soon than the tiny gap in the Wally would close, leaving him on the outside—
Thankfully, the lights suddenly flickered on again.
The president turned to Lucifer and Giovanni, ready to thank his boss and reiterate that little issue to him—
Only to stop and pause, mouth half open with the sentence hovering uncertainly on his tongue.
The two had vanished.
It's hard to sneak up on someone in a large white space with nothing to hide behind, but somehow America managed. He was good at this sort of thing—he'd often played high and seek with England back when he was still a colony, and had gotten excellent at sneaking up unnoticed despite his surroundings.
He slowly crept up behind the little figure in front of him, being sure not to make a sound, reaching out…he touched the shoulder with a feather light touch, but it was enough for his target to feel, which was exactly what he was intending. The person whipped around and stared up at him with wide eyes, expression horrified.
America playfully tapped the Rebellion's nose and hopped away, grinning when his mouth dropped indignantly. "You're it!" He called, a soft laugh bubbling up from the base of his throat at the sight of the little boy stomping his foot in anger.
"No fair!" He cried, folding his arms over his chest, puffing out his cheeks. "I didn't see you!"
He opened his mouth to respond when the Republic cut in with his little nugget of wisdom, as usual a jab against his Western counterpart. "Life isn't fair. I know you're too naïve to realize this, but you should at least hear the statement." His thin, pale lips twitched upwards into a smirk. "Maybe one day you'll understand."
And here was the root of the problem. America put his head in his hand and massaged his temples gently, wishing for all the world they could play a game without the two little boys insulting each other. It was like being at a world meeting, except with only two people. "Listen, Sparkle King." The raven-haired boy stared at him expectantly with his crimson eyes, not reacting to the nickname. Obviously the little nation wasn't experienced with social matters, because anyone else would have been offended by such a title. "The both of you are too young to know that." He looked knowingly down at East. "You're just repeating what I said back to you like you pretend you understand."
He hit it on the nose. The Republic looked indignant for a second, before he had the decency to appear embarrassed, bowing his head a little with shame. The larger nation couldn't help but smile and put a hand on the little boy's lowered head, who looked up in confusion and a bit of shame. "Aw," He said comfortingly, feeling a little guilty at causing the wide-eyed expression, "I'm not trying to make you feel bad. It's just not right to West to be like that." Then he turned to the blond counterpart and folded his arms. "That being said, he has a point. No rules in tag besides tag the other person. Without violence, of course." He smirked cheekily at them, before turning and taking off. "Ten seconds!" He called over his shoulder before the two could realize what was happening.
It was a little odd; when he looked at the two little boys, he sometimes found himself thinking of things he'd long since put to the back of his mind. They remind me a little of France and England, he thought, a soft frown unconsciously touching the edges of his lips. They remind me of the days when the family would get together for picnics, and I'd eat all the food while Canada would quietly apologize to anyone who would listen for me, and France and England would argue about who raised their children better…
He slowed to a stop, staring off into space.
I just wish I could see them again.
How long had it been…?
He'd said it before: time was funky in this dream world of his. He didn't know if it was the result of getting high one too many times during the late 1900's, or—more likely—the result of all the drugs that had been pumped into him during his stay at the lab.
It felt like years since he'd last seen his father figures, his brother…hell, he wouldn't even mind seeing Russia. The nations were so old that they all had a special bond that had been tempered by years of struggle and hardship, and to be separate from any of them was…well, it was like his heart had been ripped right out of his chest. And what frightened him most was that every time someone had approached him in the lab, he had flinched back, terrified of even the slightest human contact (perhaps it was the fact that this was a dream that allowed him to so freely by tagged and hugged by the two little boys in his dream—or maybe it was also because they were a part of him and he somehow subconsciously recognized it). He was terrified that if he ever did see his family or friends again…he couldn't hug them. He couldn't be hugged by them, or have any physical contact with them at all. That thought was nearly enough to make him never want to be found by them (key word: nearly), because he lived on friendly touches—they were his way of showing affection and being showed affection. He'd never been very good with words.
And…another thing he was terrified of.
Did they even want him back?
In his time at the lab, America had had a lot of time to think. Harsh experiments followed by hours of inactivity had given him more time than he was really used too—especially when he was confined to his cot and couldn't move because his legs were screwed up or something. So zoning out had been all he could do sometimes. Eventually it got to a point where he could sit there for hours, completely still, just thinking; the scientists had actually had the sedative machines embedded in the wall open and shut just to make sure he was still alive.
But…he'd gone over his actions a lot. How he'd behaved to the other countries, and to the people he'd called 'friend'.
How had the rest of the world stood him? Stood his pigheadedness, stood his racism and complete obliviousness? They'd told him several times not to be annoying, but he hadn't really understood—he was just getting in character. He had never really looked at the depths of animosity his attitude was causing him.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Of course they don't want you back.
He outwardly didn't react to the stinging statement, still staring blankly at the ground.
Come on. Rescue you, only to have your ungrateful 'heroic' and 'patriotic' attitude? Of course they don't want you back.
He sighed and shook his head; he had gone down this train of thought many, many times, and in the end it came back to the same thing: whether the others countries were willing to forgive him and give him a second chance or not. But…he didn't know if he was willing anymore to put himself out there, to ask for such a thing. Not after he hadn't let the others get a word in edgewise.
Some 'hero'. Scared to act, scared to be turned away from the people he had once called his friends—but really, were they his friends? How much had been his imagination?
And suddenly America realized that it was very, very quiet.
Especially with how the two mini-nations usually behaved—always at each other's throats, always threatening each other. It was a nightmare to have them get along…but right now they seemed unusually silent.
Cursing his easily distracted mind—it was another side effect of the lab, and bothered him to no end—he whipped around, expecting to see the Rebellion and the Republic trying to choke each other or something equally horrifying. They were always doing stupid stuff like that. To his surprise, though, neither of them were there—they just appeared to have vanished into thin air, which was highly unusual. Maybe America had been a little more out of it than he had originally thought.
"East?" He called quietly. "West?"
No response.
Where the hell could the two have gone?
Panic began to bubble up in America's chest as he swiveled around, looking desperately for the two little boys who had become his only company during his long sleep. They are just part of my dream, he thought, eyes widening. It's possible that they just disappeared.
But…no.
He didn't want to be alone again.
"H-Hey, guys, come on out!" He turned around again, his breath beginning to quicken. America was not actually sure why at this point; half of him was certain it was from fear of being alone again, but the other half—the more practical half—thought it was because that when he was at the lab, the people would try to play sick games with him. They would have creatures hide and stick him in the middle of a clearing or something, and have the monsters attack him to check his reaction time. Just think about it makes him feel sick, and sends a cold finger of terror up his spine. "This isn't funny!" His voice jumped an octave, almost shrill with fear—the memories of that time have begun to nip at his heels, and he knows there's nothing he can do to stop it.
And then something suddenly wrapped around his waist, and he was thrown backwards…
America folds his arms over his bare chest, scratching his calf with his foot. "What am I doing this time?" He asks, rolling his eyes at the scientists hiding behind the glass on the far wall. He's at that point where he can still be touched by people (not without flinching), and his sarcasm unit hasn't broken yet.
It's the German who responds, his voice a deep, familiar, low rumble. "Curb your tongue." He growls, voice reverberating throughout the empty room. Not another word is spoken, and America finds himself more wary than curious now—he's quickly learned that most experiments are painful for him. There's a sudden grinding noise, a sure sign that they let something else into this enclosed space with him, and he immediately tenses with nervousness. It'll be one of the failed experiments, which terrify America—he can't stand to look in their haunted eyes.
He swivels around, checking all sides, trying to see where the monster is. But there is nothing there, at least not that he saw. His instincts are telling him to run, hide, because something dangerous is hiding not a few feet away. Something twisted beyond all recognition.
There's an odd noise, and even if he tried America knew that he'd never be able to describe it—it sounds like something's trying to breath, though the air rattles and it sounds more like choking. He whips around, eyes huge, expecting to see one of the experiments…but there's nothing there.
A pattering of feet across the floor behind him—but not quite a patter—it's not light enough, but it's still fast. Something's dragging, maybe flesh, maybe something else. For the first time real fear bubbles up in America's chest…because he has no idea what is in this place with him. He begins to back towards a nearby wall, intending to protect his back and get a clear view of the entire area.
And suddenly, a tiny pair of arms wraps snugly around his waist; his breath freezes in his lungs, and his heart jumps into his throat. Almost trembling now, America wets his lips and then pulls them in, shutting his eyes. He doesn't want to see. He doesn't want to see the vile imitation of humanity. But he knows that he has to.
He looks down. A child's face stares back; it has long fangs, wide sallow eyes, and skin that's more reddish than a healthy pink; it's got a blank expression, and America knows that it has no thoughts—just like an animal, it's been reduced to its base instincts. He can't look much harder, because that's when the fangs embed themselves into his skin, and it's at that moment that America realizes the child is venomous.
The poison could kill twenty men, he later learns—but all he knows for the next few weeks is a world of pain, fever and the feeling of something breaking inside.
And then a day after he's recovered, the tests return.
America gasped when he pulled out of the horrific flashback, shaking and shuddering in terror, feeling as though he just surfaced from a cold, dark pool. The twins were kneeling beside him, each of them clutching one of his cold, pale, clammy hands—wow, when did he lie down—identical expressions of worry and desperation on their faces. The minute they saw lucidity in his eyes, they let out a cry and fell on top of him, hugging him and crying out in relief.
"Don't ever do that again!" East sobbed as America tentatively reached up to pat their heads. West nodded wordlessly in agreement. It was a heartbreaking sight, and it tugged at the older nation's heartstrings.
"I'm sorry." He said quietly, pulling the two into a tight hug, slowly sitting up as he did so. "I didn't mean to scare you two like that."
West let out a long, loud sniffle and whimpered, "We thought you were dead."
America couldn't help but wince at that. "I'm okay, see?" He patted his chest, where his heart was beating steadily, however damaged it became while he was in the labs. "Here's my heart, still going steady." He couldn't help it when he drummed on his chest in time with the pulsing organ.
They giggled tearfully. "You're so weird." East said, West nodding fervently next to him. Though he didn't show it on his face, America squealed inwardly—they were so cute when they actually got along!
Unfortunately, at that exact second the two realized exactly what they were doing. They simultaneously scrambled backwards out of America's lap, scowling angrily at each other. Said nation sighed and propped his head up in his hands, wishing for all the world they would just put aside their differences and get along, and not for the first time.
"Don't talk to me." East growled, narrowing his eyes at West, America watching the exchange with a slightly bored expression on his pale face.
"Fine." West snarled back, getting up and dusting off his grubby outfit. "I won't have to put up with you for much longer anyway."
America perked up at that, staring at the Rebellion with furrowed eyebrows. It was obvious that the little boy knew something he didn't, and he now more than ever cursed the fact that he was stuck here and not out in the real world. (Wait, never mind. Just the thought of setting out into civilization again was terrifying.)
"What do you mean by that?" East demanded angrily, putting his tiny hands on his hips in an almost effeminate gesture.
But West just smirked, closed his mouth, and turned away—but not before sharing a secretive look with a bewildered America. It sent a thrill of horror up his spine—he didn't know what the boy is planning. But whatever it was, it couldn't be good. Not for him, and not for the twins.
For the first time in a long time, he finds himself praying that everything will turn out okay.
Canada sighed and flopped onto his old couch, completely exhausted from his long day of work. It wasn't particularly physically taxing, but mentally it was a challenge—dealing with spoiled rotten officials day in and day out was seriously testing his frayed patience. Today had been especially bad, since last night he had gallivanting through the streets and had nearly missed curfew. God forbid he ever miss curfew.
Okay, so maybe he shouldn't be making light of the curfew. Citizens had been killed or sent away for staying up past the allotted time; the Republic was very serious about keeping its citizens in line. After all, kindness will be repaid with loyalty, but cruelty will be repaid with fear and hidden feelings of dissent.
He heaved a soft sigh, staring up at the ceiling pensively.
Canada would bet that the population of the Eastern half of America would rise up and drive its leaders away if it could—it had actually happened once or twice before, but the revolts had quickly been squashed, and all involved had been killed.
At least he knew where the Republic's military might was coming from—to the citizens, it must've seemed like magic. The unknown was scary, even to a nation; however with knowledge came power over a situation. That was why literature and internet was highly restricted in the country…fear breeds silence.
At first Canada had done all he could to educate the people around him, to try and get them to forget their fears and help him…but these people were still human. Eventually they were found out, or caught; only three people remained free, and they were all paranoid, smart, and sneaky beyond belief. The four of them had made a pool of information over the years, and had created a very scary picture of the Republic.
Now that he thought about it, maybe the citizens were right to be afraid.
The president had created a society that was controlled under an air-tight seal; any way of getting information about the outside world, or morals, or history had been blocked off. If you resisted, you were either killed, or sent to mysterious camps that former guards only talked about in hushed tones. Only the military was allowed to carry weapons, and the military was only composed of the most loyal men (meaning that they had been practically brainwashed). The government also regulated resources—if you pissed them off, your electricity, water, and food source was liable to vanish. And no one helped anyone anymore; there was too much fear. Any do-gooders who took in stranded neighbors quickly found themselves in the same situation. The entire thing was orchestrated by the General, an enigmatic figure cloaked in shadows and shrouded in the deaths of thousands.
It was an awful way to do things, but it was efficient.
Not to mention that the young were being brainwashed—more and more creative minds were disappearing by the day, and slowly the chances of rebellion in the Republic were disappearing.
Efficient. Cruel. They seemed almost invincible…
However only Canada and the four other people knew the truth; things were not as good for the government as they made it out to be. First of all, finding loyal soldiers fanatical enough was a challenge in itself, so forces were spread a little thin. Sure they had better technology, but numbers could easily overwhelm them (this fact was slowly being made obsolete, as brainwashed students from schools began graduating). Second of all, resources were also spread pretty thin—as supplies from before the Wall was put up dwindled, Canada was pretty certain the president was actually leaving the country to find more, buying from anyone willing to sell.
Third, leaks were more common than people thought—they'd managed to compile a map of where forces were most thickly concentrated.
That had all been in the flash drive Canada had snuck into Russia's coat pocket; after all, if the North American nation knew anything about the Russian, it was that he did love his revolutions.
Okay, living by himself for so long had made him a little cruel. It wasn't fair to the older, mentally scarred nation. What he'd meant to say was that Russia would do anything in his power to make sure America was ready to have his butt whooped by the taller nation—after all, they were rivals, but you can only be a rival with someone if your opponent is worthy. Also, it looked as though Russia had discovered something integral about the Wall that would most likely aid victory; it was likely that an attack would be launched within the next year, finally finishing the fifteen yearlong standstill.
So yeah, Russia he wasn't all that concerned about. It was England that really had him nervous. The minute the 'gentlemen' learned that he had actually stayed instead of leaving…well, Canada was not looking forwards to their next meeting.
If they ever met again…
No! Canada shook his head furiously, rolling off the couch and landing on the balls of his feet. We will all see each other again! When we see each other…
He paused. What would they all do?
We'll have a picnic.
On special occasions, they sometimes gathered together to eat food and play games of Frisbee, like a normal family. It was a little crazy, but ridiculously fun all the same. He began replaying memories from those times, trying to figure out how it would go.
England and France…will be bickering again, like an old married couple. He frowned quietly, unconsciously standing straight up in a relaxed position. Yeah, that sounds about right. And America will sweep everyone off their feet in a giant hug and we'll all suffocate, but we'll secretly be happy. England will have brought his scones, and only America will eat them because he has no taste buds. I'll sit in a corner, all quiet but smiling all the while, waiting for someone to pay attention. France will grope England, and then they'll get into a fist fight. A smile played across the ends of his lips as he imagined it.
And America will laugh and say, "Why were you guys so worried? Nothing was wrong!"
Canada nodded to himself, still smiling. That was definitely what would happen when they all met up together.
…thinking about picnics made him hungry. It was right around dinnertime, anyway. Canada roused himself from his happy daydream and padded quietly into the kitchen, determined to have a little something before he did a little more research.
He froze at the sound of knocking on the door.
He could feel his heart speeding up in his chest…Thump…thump…thump, thump, thump, thumpthumpthump—
There weren't many reasons why anyone would be at his door. After all, while socializing wasn't prohibited, if you were seen with the wrong person at the wrong time it could mean death, or worse. Has someone found out about our network?
Impossible.
No, it was very possible.
The person knocked again, obviously getting impatient; Canada jumped nearly a foot in the air, before taking in a deep breath and releasing it slowly. His expression cleared, all emotions shut down…and then he walked calmly to the front door, wrapping his hand around the handle and pulling it open.
It was a little trick he had picked up after the bombing of DC; don't let anything get to you. Whatever will happen will happen—there's no point in getting worked up about it—it made you sloppy, which could be deadly in the long run.
"Hello, can I help…" His voice trailed off, and his eyes widened to the size of saucers as he spotted who was on his doorstep.
"Hello, Mr. Williams."
Bea the agent stood at his door, looking calm and cool as usual; he was dressed all in black, and had a much more regal and important air around him than he had before. Time hadn't touched the agent yet; he was still in incredible shape.
Unfortunately, Canada only had a second to take it in, because a the next second he was falling to the ground, a dozen anesthetic darts stuck to his chest.
EEEEEY guess what time of the week it is! Me again, back with another action packed chapter!
OOOOOOO LOOK WHAT I DID TO CANADA AHAHAHAHAHHAHAA.
Also, I don't know if anyone's noticed, but I've been dropping a few hints as to who the general of the Republic is. Can anyone take a guess?
Anyway, thanks to everyone who reviewed this week!
LinkyOkumura37: Badass Canada is badass. Badass Canada is now in trouble though. My trip was lovely, thank you! I'm sorry I made you wait-only ten days this time, though, so yeah!
TheRambler13: Ehehehehe be nice to your pillows. Or something like that. I had a lot of fun coming up with the last chapter, because there were so many eMoTiOnS in it. I'm glad my efforts were appreciated. Keep rambling I love it!
GenderBender25: I GOT THAT REFERENCE THANK YOU. I must go listen to the Gospel Truth now, thanks a lot. Canada is the ultimate hero! Except for America of course...well, not right now. Poor baby's having self-esteem issues.
Brackenfern: I GOT THAT REFERENCE TOO MY FANS ARE VERY LOVELY PEOPLE. Mattie does eventually regrow his hair. The blond waves don't make an appearance until the second book though, unfortunately. I was on a trip; I'm sorry I couldn't update, but we had no internet anywhere.
Dragonfire78: Canada, despite popular belief, was actually the problem child; Ame was such a space cadet that all he really did was play with the buffalo all day. Can-chan used to go Rambo-viking on England's ass; he would get so pissed off. Haha, not really, but the idea is nice. Anyway, the rest of the world is kind of...handling it, for the most part. Sort of.
Professor Owlfeather: D'aaaw, thank you so much! That's actually one of the things I like doing best-pushing the characters, trying to find their limits, whether they break or bend. It's one of humanity's most fascinating abilities-adaptation.
Guest 1: YoU hAvE bRoUgHt A fRiEnD tO sAy HeLlO? Haha, you two are funny. Anyway, tell your best friend that we're all fucking psychos over here. No, wait, don't say that. We're all lovely, wonderful people over here! The porn-I'm sorry, the angst-no, wait-the writing is top-notch! Anyway, to answer your question: NATO and such isn't completely run by America; I'm absolutely certain that if the nation suddenly dropped out, the organizations would survive, somehow. (I actually really like the idea of Antarctica being a technological superpower, though the frozen equipment must be a bitch.) THANK YOU. GIVE ME THE CAKE. I REQUIRE CAKE AS FUEL YAAAAY. Anyway, thanks for reading my other stories and shhhhhh stop spoiling it for my readers.
Thanks again, lovelies! See you in another 10 days or so!
IceEckos12
p.s. school started today and I'm alternation between way excited and depressed.