The Hetalia Global Warming Crisis; Get Out Alive
23— The Descent
~Canada~
Matthew kept a hand to the rough stone wall to his left as he descended. All he could hear were the soft footsteps of his companions in the darkness. The air got colder and staler the deeper they went, and a shiver ran down the little man's spine. He and Francis followed with their flashlights turned off to save the batteries, relying on the beam of Ivan's light to show the way for them. They could not see anything directly in front of them, but they could feel their warm breath in the cold air and feel the cobwebs brushing their faces. So it was a shock to Matthew when Francis suddenly let out yelp and crashed into Ivan, who let out an exclamation of surprise as they both tumbled down the steps. The little man's ears twitched as he heard them land not far down with a heavy thud. He turned on his own light and leaped down the remaining steps gracefully, taking them at least five at a time.
"What happened?" he gasped as he shone his light down on the two older nations.
Ivan grunted as he shoved the Frenchman off his back and stood up, grabbing his own light, which managed to survive the fall.
"Idiot tripped," he muttered as he inspected the light and turned to look around.
Matthew helped Francis up and looked around as well. His light fell on several different doors that were placed all around the staircase, all made of different types of wood, with brass handles coated with dust. Directly opposite the stairs were two doors. On the adjacent wall to the right were five doors and behind the stairs was one more door, including a little storage area below the staircase with numerous boxes stacked on top of each other.
Ivan made his way to the boxes while Matthew moved closer to the doors.
"Fine," Francis grumbled, following the Canadian. "Don't even ask me if I'm alright. You don't even want to know how I fell."
Matthew felt a chill come over him, and not because of the cold.
"How did you fall, France?" he asked calmly, not wanting to spook the older nation if it was only a misstep.
Francis hesitated, feeling foolish. "Well, it felt as though I stepped on something… squishy… and I thought I felt a sting on my ankle before I fell. But I'm alright; it must have been a bug or something…"
Ivan turned when he heard what Francis said. His expression was calm but when he met Matthew's eyes, the young man could see the alarm in the violet depths. Ivan and Matthew shone both their flashlights down on Francis' legs and they let out tiny gasps of horror. Francis' right leg was slick with blood and a deep gash was torn into his flesh from his knee down to his ankle, shredding his boot and coating it with blood.
Matthew looked up at the Frenchman and could tell by the look of surprise on his face that Francis had not felt a thing. Ivan was gaping with bewilderment. Matthew struggled to keep calm as he drew in a breath and hissed to Ivan.
"Russia! Check your body for wounds you can't feel!" Matthew ordered quietly. "France, check me as I fix this up for you."
Ivan instantly shone the light on every part of his body, fighting to stay calm while his heart pounded in his chest. Francis turned on his light and leaned over the younger nation as the latter bent to examine the injury.
Matthew took off his gloves and stuffed them in his pocket, then tore off the top of Francis' boot—which was already torn to pieces anyways—and rolled up the Frenchman's pants. By then his hands were coated in red, a sign that Francis was losing blood fast. He stared at the mess, not knowing what to do. How was he going to clean it?
He fumbled for a glove and started to pat the wound, the cloth soaking up the blood. He pulled it away and curled his lip in disgust as a string of clear slime was also brought forth from the mess. Matthew took a closer look at the substance and his blood went cold. This, he though, must be what numbed France to the pain. He touched the slime with a finger but it didn't seem to do anything. As he looked around warily to make such Ivan and Francis hadn't seen him, the young nation slashed his finger with a sharp nail (how it had gotten so sharp, he couldn't begin to comprehend). Blood welled from the tiny slash, but he didn't feel anything. Not even a sting or a tingle.
Wiping the blood off on his coat, he continued to wipe Francis' leg clean, speeding up the process and trying to get every bit of slime off, in case it was harmful. Once it was clean, Matthew touched it tentatively and Francis howled in pain. The older nation collapsed onto one knee and rested his chin on Matthew's shoulder.
"Now I feel it," the Frenchman hissed in agony. Matthew inwardly sighed with relief; it meant that the wound had been thoroughly cleaned.
"I need something to bandage the wound, eh," Matthew said quietly. "Rip off a part of your uniform; it's not as thick as mine so it will work better."
Francis turned and reached for the end of the blue cloak, but Ivan was faster. The Russian swooped down and tore the seam with his teeth, ripping the rest of the soft fabric with his hands. He handed it to Matthew and the little Canadian swiftly wound it around the bleeding gash and tied the ends.
Ivan and Matthew stood, with Francis balanced between them.
"Did you take a look at those boxes?" Matthew murmured with a glance at Ivan.
"Da," he replied evenly, "just some old empty bottles and books. What did you find out about the doors?"
Before Matthew replied, Francis interrupted with an uninterested glance at the doors.
"They look the same to me," he muttered. "They don't even have labels or numbers or anything. They're all just wooden doors."
Matthew wanted to drop the Frenchman in his irritation. He was sick of being interrupted and ignored, especially when Russia had finally started to notice him.
"That's because you're not looking close enough," said the little man smugly. "To the untrained eye, they look like ordinary doors, but look close enough and you see they're all different. Eh, Russia?"
He wanted to see if Ivan was smart enough to figure that much out.
"Da," the Russian replied, pointing as he spoke, "That door is darker than that one."
"That's true," Matthew said as he tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement. "But each door is made out of different types of wood." He nodded to the two doors they were facing, shining the light on each door as he spoke. "Red oak and elm. The strongest trees known and their colouration are light." He tilted his head. "Those five doors, from left to right; spruce, birch, butternut, ash, and—" He twitched as he said the last one, but was otherwise unaffected. "—red maple." He twisted his head to look over his shoulder and caught his breath.
"What's wrong?" Francis asked as he and Ivan turned to look behind them. Mathew was staring at the door in recognition and anger.
The Canadian hissed with cold fury, bristling aggressively.
"What's the wood of a sugar maple doing in here!"
Matthew let go of Francis, forcing Ivan to support the wounded man as the little Canadian darted to the door and sniffed the russet-coloured wood.
"Definitely sugar maple," he muttered, almost madly. He seemed to have forgotten about France and Russia altogether.
"What's wrong with that?" Ivan asked innocently, trying not to anger the little man even more. Both he and Francis had seen what the Canadian was capable of.
"What's wrong?" Matthew repeated as he whipped his head around, indigo eyes flashing dangerously as he glared, unafraid, at the Russian. "No one dares harvest my national tree for a stupid door! Canadians only ever take the sap, for syrup."
"What about the forestry products you always make?" Ivan continued mildly. "How come you make furniture out of maple trees? Doors too."
"Those are different types of maples," explained Matthew, calming down a little. "Silver and red maples have good sap too, but aren't as sweet as the sap of the sugar maple. So we use those trees for material goods. The wooden crates I use to ship things to you are made from silver maples. Hardwood floors, doors, and furniture are from the red maples."
The older countries were taken by surprise at how much the young nation knew about his resources. They eyed the doors warily and exchanged glances. Neither could have named each type of wood that quickly.
"So what would this all mean?" Francis asked Matthew, inwardly frustrated that he had to rely on the younger nation for once.
"I… I think it might be a code, one only a person who knows about trees can crack," Matthew whispered softly. He turned back to Ivan and Francis, who were still standing where he left them. Far away from him, the Canadian noted with a slight annoyance.
"Could the letters stand for something?" Ivan suggested, shining his light on the oak door. "Maybe the O in oak could stand for office."
"But if this place was used internationally…" Francis began to say, before Matthew suddenly broke in, realising what Francis meant.
"That would be like saying it's a bureau in French," he said with a distracted nod. "And that doesn't start with O."
"This is America's place we're talking about here," the Russian snorted in contempt. "Since when did the boy ever think about other countries rationally?"
Matthew watched as Francis nodded, wanting to defend his brother while at the same time not knowing what to say as he silently agreed with them. He pushed the insult to America away and focused on the puzzle, aware of Ivan's eyes challenging him to retaliate.
"Well, there's only one way to find out," he said, slowly making his way back to them. "But first tell me what the E in elm would stand for, just to be safe."
"Emergency? Energy? Empty?" Francis started running over random English words he knew while Ivan stood quietly. Matthew was aware of the tall man's patience wearing thin.
"If you're quite done," he said politely as he interrupted Francis, "we should get a move on before the others wonder what's keeping us."
Without any fear or caution whatsoever, the Russian strode over to the first door, with the Frenchman still leaning on him. Matthew took Francis' other arm over his shoulders and waited for Ivan to open the door.
The brass handle was locked, so Russia kicked the door open with a loud bang. The three nations scanned the room with their flashlights. All they saw was a desk in the back, with several bookcases on either side of the wall and four chairs facing the desk. Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust.
"It's an office," Ivan pointed out unnecessarily. Matthew and Francis shot irritated glances at him.
"Then what is in the next one?" Francis snapped at Ivan. "Care to guess?"
The Russian's lips twitched in an irritated smile. "I wouldn't need to guess if I didn't—"
"Oh, just open the damn door!" Matthew snarled, sensing an argument beginning to form. He let go of Francis and moved on to the second door. It too was locked so he kicked it open with more force than Russia had with the previous.
He gaped at what he saw, face twisted in mixed shock and horror.
Ivan and Francis moved in behind him and he heard the latter gasp at what was inside. Ivan was suppressing a sadistic giggle. Matthew swallowed and found his voice, licking his lips nervously.
"E stands for execution."
For inside the large room they saw every kind of killing device that was ever invented.
And every single surface was covered in blood.
Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya...
...I disown my insane, sadistic, masochistic mind as well.
I challenge you to guess what is going to happen!
I finished writing the third arc~ I just need to post it. In the mean time I'll tease you guys for a few weeks or so with this chapter. :P
IF YOU WANT MORE, REVIEW! :D