This wasn't what he expected. Sure, America had expected a fierce opposition but nothing like this. Artillery exploded over head and guns fired wildly. Somehow, organization and the chain of command had been broken in the onslaught. Men and women screamed and a multitude of languages fought for supremacy with the all consuming clatter of war.
The West Europeans were retreating, tripping over their own mines hastily. The retreat was not a peaceful thing. Both sides were still fighting furiously, intent on wreaking as much damage as possible before either side fled too far for further combat. The air reeked of freshly shed blood and the sky shined a brilliant tint of baby blue.
Careful to keep low, America made his way to the front or as close as he could. Somewhere ahead, tanks rumbled darkly and shrapnel cascaded hap hazardously. He wanted to find Russia but there were more pressing matters to attend to. One of the like, not getting shot by the retreating forces.
America cursed under his breath before crawling to the rise of a little hill not far off. Cautiously, he glanced over the top. More carnage, more combat, more excitement. He knew there was something wrong with the way his heart sped, hands shook, and entire body pulsed. The feeling wasn't entirely fear; the fear gnawing away at his insides was nearly eclipsed by something strong, something more potent. He smiled.
He fired off a few shots in succession before scootching down the hill for a moment. The gun felt entirely too hot as he clutched the metal to his chest. There was something intoxicating about the radiating heat, though. Modern yet primal. A new way to further the circle of life, an invention meant to infinitely fuel an age-old proverb: survival of the fittest. America closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled. He tasted blood and felt the searing heat in his palms as he popped up again to continue firing, still smiling.
Instead of an open field with soldiers ripe for the picking, America received the butt of a rifle to the jaw. He yelped and fell to the side of the hill, careful to still stay behind cover. In one fluid motion, he struck out with his own weapon and jabbed the butt of his own gun into the impromptu attack's shin.
"Merde!"
America's gaze snapped up as France ducked and took over the right side of the hillside. For a moment, the man's face had been pinched but now he looked calm and almost graceful. Quickly, America raised his gun just as France raised his rifle. The two remained firm, grips sure and fingers poised over triggers.
"Hey, France," America greeted pleasantly. His lips were still curved upward, but all joy was drained from the gesture. "Haven't seen you since the Boston bombings."
"You'll have to excuse me, I've been quite busy, America," France returned easily.
America shrugged just as his hand twitched. Tension flared and seeped out from between them, suffocating. For a moment, France's eyes narrowed. Neither said a word from there, neither knowing just what to say. After all, what could there be to say? Other than useless, snarky banter, there could be no possible semblance of traditional, pleasant conversation. America figured he would try anyway.
"I'm sure. So, anyway, send my regards to England when you find him."
The American cocked his head, eyes slipping shut for a moment. The gesture seemed almost carefree. It was mocking. France chuckled nonetheless, gun shifting in his hands as he settled more comfortably onto the grass. America followed suit. It didn't look like the stalemate would let up any time soon.
"When I find him?" France quirked a brow; barely concealed mirth danced across his features. "Whatever do you mean?"
America shrugged again while working a leg underneath his bottom, "Prick got a lesson in new school dog fighting is all."
Another chuckle, "Ah, well. I'm sure that won't be necessary."
"I'm not sure," America replied smugly. He couldn't help the grin creeping up.
Whatever France began to retort was drown out by the thunderous crashing of bombs dropping close-by. The din did not last terribly long, but the quakes following rippled throughout the earth long after. America had to fight to keep his guns steady as he body rode out the worst of it. He laughed, reaffirming his grip before settling into a lounging position.
"Hey, Al, we're done here and going back to base to land."
America kept his gun raised with his finger just lightly pressing against the trigger as his other hand reached down for the radio clipped to his side. Bringing the little device up, he locked gazes with France and replied, "Thank, bro, you're a doll." He replaced the radio before resuming his previous position. "Here that? You guys have fuckin' lost so bad and I love it."
France laughed in return. He seemed almost thoughtful as he just stared at America, lids lowered and knowing smile softly touching his lips. One nod, "You look so comfortable, America. You would do better to be on guard."
"And why's tha-"
"Pull out of there soon, Al."
A light scowl worked its way to America's face as he brought the radio back up to his lips. He pressed the call button and opened his mouth to tell Canada not to worry, that he was fine, check on Ukraine and Belarus, anyone else that actually needed the concern. It would have been a haughty, arrogant thing to say, but the words never left America's lips as he surged forward, pain jarring his thoughts and spreading from the back of his skull. Black then green, America groaned and quickly attempted to sit back up and raise his weapon once more. A weight between the blades of his shoulder kept him pinned down and immobile while the gun in his hand was roughly kicked away.
"Al! Are you alright? What the hell was that?"
The radio lay beside his head but a foot on either arm kept him from reaching out. America had once again jumped the gun and now he was pinned to some god forsaken piece of land.
"Fantastic," America snarled, body twisting violently as he thrashed to get free. The barrel of a gun was pressed to the base of his head, further pinning him as he stilled. "Fuck you," he hissed in retaliation.
"Such language, lad. Watch your tongue."
Shit repeatedly traversed America's mind. Apparently, he hadn't done enough to damage to knock England out for long enough or to send the Englishman's plane crashing far enough away. He recognized the voice above, at the other end of the barrel, and growled at the tone. It was like chiding a child, something he had heard many times when young.
"Make me," America returned, attempting to wriggle one arm free.
"Non, America." France clicked his tongue disapprovingly from over head. He smashed the heel of his boot into America's forearm, placing nearly enough pressure to snap the bone.
America would not allow himself to cry out. He had suffered worse. A broken bone would make no difference and the pain was manageable. He tried again, this time the other arm. This time, the boot keeping his arm down did press with enough force. The bone snapped and America buried his face into the grass. It smelled like dirt and nature. At such close range, the purely comforting scent was not marred by the stench of blood. He bit his lip, to keep back a groan, as the boot pushed down further before completely removing itself. There was no way he could move his arm.
"I didn't appreciate our recent encounter," England began.
"Good!" America cut in quickly.
Oh, how America wanted to turn over and just nail England with a low blow. Anything to knock the nation down a few pegs so that condescending tone would vanish. He couldn't stand that tone, the implication that he was a mindless brat. His blood boiled and rage began to build within the pit of his stomach.
The barrel slammed down onto his neck, "Shut up, America. You'd do well to keep your bloody mouth shut right now."
"As would you, England."
"Drop the guns."
America could have cried. Even with the deafening roar on conflict still echoing through the chilling air and face still pressed into the ground, he could place the new duo. Russia and North Korea. The irony was lost on him. At one point, he had hated both and was hated in return. Now, they were saving him from a rather unpleasant bullet in the head and verbal reprimation. He laughed ruefully.
Silence reigned between the gathered group. Animosity was rising and the once at ease air of France and England quickly fled. He could feel the boot in his back shift nervously, barrel rising up and away. The gunfire and abundance of noise once present began to fade and America found himself grinning despite his position on the ground. After all, the operation had succeeded, France and England needed to retreat or face capture, and he was going to be lucky enough to walk away with a broken arm. The injury would heal soon enough, a few days at most. The situation was nearly enjoyable, if only it weren't for the discovery of his rather compromising position. America would get shit about it later.
"Drop them!" North Korea ordered once more.
She stood behind France, pistol raised and hanging dangerously close to the man's back. Her voice was all authority, all dominance and confidence and power. Somehow, she exuded a composed aura despite the poor shape of her uniform. Onyx met emerald and violet met blue at the peak of the stand off's constricting anxiety. No gun clattered to the ground.
"Here's a deal," England replied coldly, eyes narrowing as he fixed the woman with a venomous stare, "I won't shoot the lad and you let us retreat."
"For god's sake, just do it!" America put in. He didn't particularly feel like being shot, especially in the head, and knew full well that North Korea would hardly bat a lash if it were to happen. They were now allies but the ill will had never fled. "Don't be a bitch."
"Agreed," Russia put in; his gun hovering between England's shoulders.
The Brit nodded and France conceded with a languid roll of his shoulders as both raised their guns and turned to line their sights on the two standing nations. Hesitantly, with unwavering care and caution, France and England began a slow backwards trot. They were careful to work their way around the bodies and go off into the dense coverage of the forest.
When America heard safeties clicking, he pushed himself up from the ground. His arm throbbed and head swam, but adrenaline surged within and he found the strength to stand with injured arm cradled close to his body. Russia had reached to assist, only to be swatted away from a smiling America as North Korea watched on. She was just as impassive as Russia seemed.
"Thanks."
America's didn't sounded grateful. The words were hissed, sarcastic. It did not phase his allies. Instead, the pair turned their backs with the intent to return to a now old British-French base not far off. America was about to follow when a choked gasp sprang out and he slumped forward. Red began to seep through the material of his uniform from the back of his thigh, lazily dripping down. He sat back, hard, to try and stem the bleeding with his calf.
"Just for you, lad!"
His head twisted to the side painfully, gaze willing the trees to spontaneously combust. Of course England would pull a trick like that. He should have seen it coming and mentally berated himself for letting his guard down momentarily. Really, he should have known better. Honestly, he really should have.
"Shithead," America breathed, glancing up as Russia approached once more.
North Korea hung back, her lips quirking upwards, before she turned and continued on her way. The woman was out of sight quickly. The ring of gunfire was the only thing that followed in her wake as she shot those still trying to cling to life.
Russia kneeled and laid a gentle hand on America's shoulder. A self satisfied smile just barely curled the edges of his mouth and America could do nothing but scowl darkly at the man before him. To America, there was nothing funny about the whole thing, but Russia's falsely caring gestures only spoke of amusement at America's expense. America couldn't stand it so, in a last jolt of energy, he socked Russia none too gently.
The man's head whipped to the side. A hand rose to pop his jaw back into place with a sickening snap before that smile was back and Russia was holstering his rifle. There were no words as he slipped a hand under America and uncurled the nation for more comfortable carrying. The wound on the back of America's thigh bled lazily, barely repressed by the press of Russia's arm. He couldn't particularly find the will to care. Soon enough, the wound would close, the aching within his skull would flee, and he would beat Russia senseless till he was put down. Nothing short of ordinary.
A/N: Holy ffff-, sorry for the horrendously long wait. I was having editor issues, so, yea. I slipped down my list to third choice, so sorry if anything messed up, sounds funny, things are mixed, etc. And dear, sweet Jesus lord, I'm sorry this chapter sucks so much. Honestly, my brain died and. . . Well, I don't know where it went. But I may rewrite this or at least make the next one better. That's about all I've to say, so, read, review. Do it to it.
