It was like rising out of a foggy dream. First the darkness of what you've forgotten, and then gray light, and then awakening, thought Russia. Oh, and also the pain.
And there was pain, a great big burst of it radiating outwards from his back. The alien had stung him there, he remembered. Gingerly, he reached a hand to the crooked tear in his coat and the painful welt on his back, still tacky with half-dried blood. His fingers came back smeared pinkish.
Russia rolled from lying sideways to his stomach to take weight off the sting. He was sure the alien had hit him the hardest, because the other alien, the one he'd killed, was…what? Its mate?
At that point he noticed there was a bench in the corner. Backhanding silver liquid from his mouth, he pushed to his feet and crossed the small room in three giant steps. His jacket felt lighter, a bit different than what he was used to.
Oh, yes, my pipe. His pickaxe was also missing.
"Well," he said aloud, "at least I still have my vodka." He pulled out the bottle and stuck a finger through the neck, wetting his finger in the clear liquid. Alcohol disinfects, right? Russia dabbed his finger on the sting, gritting his teeth at the resulting sparks of pain. Da, it disinfects. At least that was the theory.
His back now complaining more than ever, he downed the last of the liquid, swishing it through his teeth to rid his mouth of the moldy taste of the silver stuff. Then he stashed the bottle back in his jacket. He could smash it against an alien forehead, if he needed to.
Russia imagined the whistle of air over the mouth of the bottle as he swung it, followed by a jarring impact as the glass splintered in every direction, impaling some of the alien's eyes with a squish. The alien would scream, black blood dripping from its face, and swipe with a claw, but Russia would dodge it and slam the remaining fragments of glass into its nose before wringing its useless neck. Yes, he could see it clearly.
He allowed himself a small smile and stretched, disregarding the accompanying flare from his back. His foot nudged a light-weight tray, and Russia looked down at it. There was a glass and a puddle of greenish slime. He brought it to his face and smelled it curiously before scrunching up his nose and saying, "Smells like your cooking, England." He hurled the tray against the bars, where it burst into pieces that melted like smoke.
Russia cocked his head to one side. Strange…
Then a familiar, annoying voice assailed his ears. "Oh, good, Russia, you're awake. We were starting to wonder if you were dead."
Russia sighed. No putting it off; he had to talk to him or else America would never shut up. "How long-?" he began, but America cut him off.
"A good half hour after the heroic me woke up, and the aliens managed to defeat me last. They must've hated you."
"Must have," echoed Russia, wishing America would just shut up and leave him to his daydreams of smashing aliens. It was harder to be afraid of them when they were nowhere near.
"This food tastes awful, by the way," continued America. "What you said about England's cooking fits perfectly. Man, I wish I had a hamburger right now."
"I BLOODY HEARD THAT!" came an angry roar from down the hall. "JUST BECAUSE I'M IN THIS CELL DOESN'T MEAN YOU CAN JUST-"
"How many of us are there?" asked Russia, wincing as the pain suddenly intensified. He'd have to open his other bottle of vodka if it was infected after all, and then it wouldn't taste as good if he had alien blood on his fingers when he dipped for more. Maybe he should just pour the vodka on his head-
"All of us seem to be here," said America, obliviously intruding upon his ruminations. "You're at the end of the hall. Then there's me, and then good ol' England, and as far as I can tell, France. Right, England?" He hollered the last two words, aiming his voice down the hall. He could hear China and Japan resume talking after the brief blast of sound.
"You don't have to be so bloody loud," said England. "And yes, France is here. I outwitted him verbally." There was a trace of smugness in his voice.
"You did not!" came the angry reply. "I won, fair and square. You're just too thick to admit it."
Then the two of them were yelling and trading insults. Russia smiled at their antics. If only he could watch, and provide tactics that would get them both eliminated. Then he'd slowly take over the rest of the world, and everyone would become one with him… His wound throbbed, shaking him out of the dream. He wished he had something to hold onto. Holding onto cylindrical weapons always made him feel better.
"After that," America went on, "We don't know. I think it goes China, Japan, then Germany and Italy. Yeah, that sounds right." England and France were still yelling.
"Is it right," said Russia slowly, "to admit that I'm a little worried? I mean, what's happening on Earth? And how are we going to get out of here?"
"Oh, that's no problem!" blustered America. "I'll just pull these bars apart, and-"
There was a loud zap.
"What happened?" asked Russia, amused. "Did you succeed?" He wanted to get out and smash a few skulls, or at least get his pipe back. Preferably without running into the aliens, said a small voice inside. They're stronger than you, and you know it.
"заткнись," he said out loud. Shut up. I can handle myself.
"What was that? I don't speak Russian," America said, sounding winded. "The bars flipping electrocuted me. I grabbed them and they burnt my hands. And I couldn't even begin to bend them. Of course, by then, the electricity threw me off."
There was a hissing noise. Russia looked down.
"America, you have ideas, yes? You're going to be the hero, da?" His voice was a bit strained, and the fear from his inner voice was leaking a bit.
America's voice was a little off when he responded, "Yeah, I hope. Why?"
"There's a gas coming into my cell, and I'm not sure what it's going to do."
"Try and fan it towards the bars!" suggested America.
"Tried that," said Russia, who was standing on the bench to keep the gas from touching his feet. "It's not going through. The bars are a wall."
England and France had finally stopped arguing, and England said, "There's a gas in my cell. Anyone else?"
Russia groaned. "Were you not just listening to anything we said?" Idiot, he added mentally.
"Me too!" France chimed. "America, if you have any ideas, use them now."
"Besides ramming the bars and burning myself again?" America snapped.
"Can't you all stop fighting for a minute?" Russia's voice was muffled through his scarf, which was wrapped around his face. "I could be dying, here." He was afraid after all, and he cursed himself for it. He'd thought he'd killed fear a while ago.
"There's no gas in here, so I can't help you," said America in an attempt at nonchalance. Everyone could hear that he was worried anyway. "And I have no ideas. I don't know."
"Invent one!" shouted Russia, spitting out scarf fibers and the smoky taste of the gas. "The room is full of it! I can't even s-" he started coughing violently, his words lost.
"England? France? What about you?"
"Well, I've got my jacket around my head, but I can still taste this nasty stuff. Do something bloody quickly, before who knows what'll happen here. I don't-" England started coughing as well.
"Ha, I'm fine," said France. "This gas seems to have no effect on me. Perhaps I'm too gorgeo-" and then the coughing spread to him as well.
"Guys?" said America nervously.
Russia was in no shape to respond. His lungs felt like they were burning, and the more he coughed, the more air he sucked in, and more burning. Not to mention the blister on his back was reacting to the gas and all the coughing he was doing, and it felt like it was eating a hole through his ribcage. His eyes darted around, trying to make the mustard colored fog reveal its purpose to him. It seemed as if dancing forms took shape around him.
The fog irritated his eyes, and he closed them briefly.
There was a crackling sound, and sudden, intense heat.
His eyes shot open.
Russia was in a field of fire, with a bare circle around him. He'd always hated fire. It melted the perfect beauty of snow, drove away General Winter, chased off the cold that he loved, consumed everything in its path.
As he saw the skyline of Moscow burning.
As all around him, sunflowers withered and died.
As his clothes flickered with sparks.
As his sisters came staggering out of the flowers, fire blazing in the hair, their skin, their clothes…Ukraine screamed and threw her hands up, and Belarus, in a rare display of compassion, sprinted to her sister. Both of them burned, and their voices pleaded with him.
He ran to them, but was stopped by a wall. Hard, invisible. He beat on it with his fists, attempting to call out, but the smoke was thick in his throat, and he coughed even more, spittle mixing with the sweat and bewildered tears.
How….my worst nightmares, my family, my sisters, my life…all gone, because of this hellfire…
Even General Winter burned, though indiscreetly, a smudge of glowing embers on the horizon, limning the sky with a dull red glow.
Ukraine surged forwards, and then with a final shriek, fell, rolling just to the edge of the bare circle. Belarus followed suit, one hand extended in supplication. Russia jumped forwards, extending his fingers, which just brushed hers. He rammed his fists against the invisible corner, until they splattered blood onto the invisible walls, defining them more.
And then both his sisters were charred down to bones and teeth and ashes.
With a sob, Russia looked down at himself, at the glowing sparks he could feel nestled in his hair, his clothes, the heat searing his skin. As he watched, the ends of his scarf burst into flame.
That spurred him to action. He tore it off his neck and stomped on it, attempting to put it out. It just blazed brighter, until his coat trailed fire as well. He dropped to the ground, rolled around frantically, but the fire still spread until it seemed that all he breathed was fire, that it raced inside his veins like poison, glowing under his skin, which erupted into flames as well.
It was unbearable, and all too much at once. Everything…
Russia knelt in the earth, ignoring the ropes of fire lashing his clothes, melting his scarf to his skin. He just screamed, until the fire consumed him.
America was afraid. He wouldn't admit it, but he was. Russia and England were no longer coughing, and France was, only weakly. Were they dead? He panicked, before chewing the inside of his cheek to calm himself.
France ceased. Now there was only coughing from down the hall. There were a few sounds coming from Russia's cell and England's cell, but they were nearly inaudible. He suspected the bars were altering the sound for that.
There was a hissing noise, and he looked down dispassionately to see a slow, steady trickle of gas. Then, his attention was caught by a portion of the wall lighting up. A black screen, out of his reach, with the wavering white words, "You will never be the hero."
America blanched, then put on a brave front. "Aww, you guys really hurt me, right here." He thumped his chest with one hand. "That just cuts me to the bone, man."
It was uncanny how well they knew him, just what barbs would begin to make him feel uneasy and unnecessary. Of course I'm the hero, he protested. Who else could even try?
Of course, his newly-regained confidence was shattered by a tortured animal scream, containing all the sorrow in the world. And it came from Russia's cell. Russia. Screaming, like that…
The sound sent shivers up his spine. Russia was never afraid, never injured. For him to even admit he was worried earlier was deliberately out of character. Russia never showed anything besides intermediate cheerfulness, and America grudgingly respected that. But now, it was like his spirit had been broken.
The sound went on and on, and then when it was falling slightly, England joined in, shouting fearfully, "No! Stop, dammit!" And then the pain-filled voice, adding to the scream. France began cursing an instant later, a string of words to fast to pronounce flying out of him, and then, as well, pleading, and fear making his voice crack.
And it was as if the other four began at once. A chorus, a cacophony of the inner demons of the seven other nations he's thought he'd known back to front. There was sobbing, as if the owner of the voice's world had ended, and then a high shriek from Italy; "ROMANOO!~ GERMANYYY!~"
For a moment China's voice topped the verbal pile. "Bu yao sha le wo de jia ren, hai shi wo!" On an instinctive level, he understood. Don't kill my family, or me.
And just when he thought he'd go insane from the sound, the gas finally filled the room.
What is it? Thought America wildly. What could make them scream like that?
And then, as he breathed in the fog, he thought, I'll find out.
The smoke coalesced around him, and in seconds he saw why. And he too screamed.
A/N: By putting the note down here, you shall be more motivated to review! I hope.