His strength had failed him. Now, of all times.

He tried to struggle. Tried to prise himself free from their vicelike grip, but it was to no avail. No matter how he twisted and writhed, their hands remained tight on his wrists and shoulders, their fingers bruising his face as they were pressed over his mouth.

Somehow, with a sideways wrench of his face, he was able to free his head.

"Get off me!" he shouted. "LET ME GO! LET ME G- mmmpf!"

He didn't even know why they were doing this. He didn't know who these people were or what they wanted with him. All he knew was that he wanted to get out of here ASAP.

There was the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked, and he looked up to see a cold steel barrel pressed against his forehead.

"Not another move," snarled the thug who was holding it, "or I'll show everyone what colour a nation's brains are."

He froze. Even though there was a high chance it wouldn't kill him permanently, he didn't want a bullet in his head. He didn't want to be unable to help anyone else who might be stuck here.

The door banged open for the second time in as many minutes and the final thug entered, dragging with him a man much smaller and scrawnier than he was. If he had been able to breathe, he would have gasped and then started screaming.

"Get the bloody hell off me!" shouted the shorter newcomer. "Let me go, you blasted git! Let me GO!"

His forest green eyes fell upon the other prisoner and widened in shock.

"America!" he cried. "Are you-?"

He was cut off by a fierce punch to the gut which emptied the air from his lungs. America tried to shout for the thugs to leave his friend alone, but was pulled back and pressed down by the gun barrel on his forehead.

Meanwhile, the newest assaulter managed to restrain England by pinning his arms against the cold stone wall above his head with a single hand and standing on his feet, completely immobilising the smaller man.

"If you don't get off me," he snarled, "if you don't release both of us right now I'll-"

"What?" asked the man restraining him, producing a switchblade and pressing it against England's throat. "You'll what?"

The blonde fell silent and carefully gulped, sweating at the sight of the blade. His attacker moved it down and started to cut the buttons off his jacket, and again on his shirt once it was uncovered. After that, England's vest was lifted, revealing his bare, pale, unblemished body.

America tried to struggle again. He had to be the hero this time. Who knows what might happen if he allowed this to continue? He had to get free and help England, he had to fight these bastards off, he had to escape and-

-and avoid getting shot in the head and rendered unable to do anything.

"You keep still," said the one holding England, "and maybe this won't hurt as much."

"What?" England demanded. "What won't hurt as- AH!"

He cried out in pain as the blade punctured his chest, and tried to avoid breathing too heavily as it was pulled downwards and left a cut about two inches long, which then skewed off sideways at a right angle, forming a small L. He outright screamed when the knife went in a second time, carving another letter which was obscured by blood and difficult to make out from where America was kneeling.

Satisfied, the thug stepped away, but still kept his hands on England's wrists so that he wouldn't try to escape.

"Okay," he said, flicking the blade closed and tossing the knife to one of his comrades, "your turn."

America's eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright panting, whimpering and clutching fearfully at his bedsheets.

He looked around. Even through the fuzziness that came with not wearing glasses, he could still tell that he was in his bedroom. In his cosy house in good ol' DC. Safe and sound.

It was only a nightmare. Thank god.

But heroes didn't have nightmares.

Did they?

He settled down and hoped against hope that it wouldn't continue once sleep returned.

It was finally over.

The last man released England's bruised wrists and he fell to the floor, his blood soaking into his torn shirts and tainting his whole torso scarlet. His breaths were short and ragged and his eyelids flickered uncontrollably. He was doing everything in his power to just remain conscious.

America was finally released and he too collapsed, unable to prevent himself from falling.

"Eng… England…" he breathed.

"Sorry you guys," said one of the thugs (the one who had first restrained England, presumably the leader) "but we gotta pop out for a while. Gonna go to the city of Death and snatch us a soul!"

Laughing raucously, the small horde left the two nations alone in the cell.

As America sat up, England rolled onto his stomach and tried to tug his shirts closed. He looked up at the nation who was formerly his brother.

"Are you…" he tried to say.

"I-I'm okay," America stammered. "I think I'm alright. Wh-what about-"

"I'll be fine," England groaned. "I… I think I'll… I'll be…"

"I'm sorry."

He knew the other nation was looking up at him, but America could barely see through the tears which were clouding his vision. His face was heating up and steaming his glasses, but he didn't notice. He didn't even care that his body was shaking in uncontrollable sobs.

"I'm so sorry," he choked. "I'm not a hero. I couldn't save you, I… I-I'm just a coward. A stupid coward. I'm sorry I couldn't help you, I was just too scared and I-I didn't want to get hurt because then I wouldn't be able to help you and… and… I'm so sorry!"

He slapped his hands over his face, not wanting England to see him in such a sad state.

"It's okay, America."

Gentle hands pulled his arms down and rested them on his knees. It was hard, but the young man somehow managed to look up into the bright emeralds he had grown up with.

"I don't blame you," England said with a wavering voice, rubbing America's hands. "Do you hear me, America? I do not blame you."

Fingers trembling uncontrollably, America pulled up the bloodied fabric and his tears flowed faster when he saw the fifteen pairs of letters, each couple larger and more careless than the last, carved into England's bleeding body.

"I'm sorry," he repeated quietly, bowing his head in shame.

The other man raised his face with a gentle stroke of the cheek, their eyes connected, and America could take no more. He fell forward and wept into England's shoulder, the soft hands on his back doing little to comfort him in his moment of sorrow.

It wasn't a nightmare.

America realised that as he opened his eyes for the second time that night. That was no dream. It was a memory. One of many that his mind had dredged up every night for the past almost-seven weeks. If anything, it was by far the worst memory of that place, if not his whole life.

Never before did he think he would feel so helpless.

He had spent decades upon decades convincing himself that he was the greatest nation in the world. He was the heroic US of A, ready to leap into action and save the asses of any of the others when they needed him, provided they didn't need help with communism.

In that single moment – the space of around a quarter of an hour – everything he had believed about himself was annihilated and he was reduced to nothing. A small flicker of hope had bloomed when they were finally released, but that time he had to step back and allow somebody else to hog the heroism. Italy Veneziano was allowed to be the hero.

Considering what the man was like, it would probably never happen again.

He looked over at the clock by the side of his bed, the luminescent display informing him that it was 10:45pm. There wasn't really any point in trying to get back to sleep yet. It wasn't like it would last long.

America needed somebody to talk to. Badly.

His fumbling hand found his phone a couple of centimetres away from the clock, but the glare from the screen made his eyes hurt and he had to don Texas for extra protection.

He brought up the list of contacts and scrolled down to Limey Jerkwad.