A/N: I apologize so much for this chapter's lateness; as the end of the school year nears, those teachers pile on more work, filling my time. :P I did get my computer back, and now I owe you three chapters at once! Which I will get you all!...eventually.
Keep reviewing, it makes my day when I get them :D Now on with the story!
About five minutes later America awoke and started complaining, and giving all the nations a verbal list of his injuries, and a thorough lecture about how "the sidekicks were supposed to take one for the hero!" He filled the hall with mindless chatter.
The nations were annoyed in about three seconds flat.
"Shut up already!" mouthed England, though his voice refused to emerge. His cry was picked up by Germany. "My head hurts, America, so please be quiet."
"Never!" crowed America, having successfully evoked a response from one of the oddly silent nations. He rambled on, trying to entice someone into a conversation.
Finally, China spoke. "I may as well talk, aru, because it's better than relieving what happened over and over again." Just along the back of his eyes was a yellow-skied wasteland.
Then the hall was filled with too many overly bright voices, each trying to forget the horrible things they'd seen.
America tried to talk to Russia, but Russia was quiet and taciturn, giving one-word replies.
"You will leave me alone, da?" The tall nation asked bitterly, after a time. "Make up another delusion in which you are the hero."
America fell silent, just in time to hear Russia murmur "…so I can save them from the fire." Unsettled but trying not to show it, the heroic nation turned to England, who immediately responded, "Sorry, but I can't talk, my throat's burnt out, thanks to that bloody frog."
The frog in question was caught in an argument with China about who's food was better. Japan occasionally interjected a comment, and Germany was going on about how the finest German beer was twice as good of either of the foods tasted. Italy was listing several types of pasta and that sausages taste terrible.
America found an opening and shouted about hamburgers, and even Russia got out of his slump and praised vodka. England even managed to make himself heard and shoot off a few insults at the people who didn't like his scones. They were almost feeling better-had almost forgotten what they'd seen- when a thick and heavy silence ate their words, cutting off France in the middle of insisting that French wine was better than beer or vodka.
It took him half a minute to realize that the bars had blocked out sound, and he sighed and sank down against the wall. In his mind's eye, an elegant bottle full of sparkling red wine faded back into drowning in a slick, meaty substance, sliding around him, up his nose, he couldn't breathe-
Non. Anything else. He refocused back on food. His stomach rumbled, and he glared at the tray shoved under the bench. "That slop is an insult to French food. Bring me something better!" he shouted, startling himself into laughter.
After what could've been an hour, though, the square was starting to look downright edible. France pinched it between thumb and finger and dangled it warily in front of his nose. "Smells like the back of England's refrigerator."
He ripped off a corner and sampled it warily. Mm. Cardboard.
Sometime after the horrible experience of ingesting the square, he lay on the bench to try and go to sleep. The bench was cold, and the metal dug into his shoulder blades. France groaned and re-arranged his arms under his head, rolling over for the umpteenth time.
There was an alien standing in the cell. Tall, like they all were, with an expressionless face and the long scorpion tail curled over its feet. The pale milky skin of this alien was crisscrossed with dark gray lines, and its bones pulsed as it breathed. The rest of the alien did not move.
France sat and stared for all of ten seconds, unable to comprehend. And then his brain kick-started and he sprang up, anger fizzing in his veins. "Why did you do this to us? What have we done to you?" Full of rage, he charged the alien, and smashed into a wall.
A bit dazed, he nursed his bruised knuckles and looked at the place where the alien had grabbed him and swung him into the wall. It was red, and his skin hurt. He swung at the alien, putting all his rage into it, and it moved nearly faster than he could see.
Boom, fist to the jaw. Alien crumples like paper. France saves the day. That was what he imagined, anyway.
His back hit the floor hard, and the impact rang all the way up to his skull. He hadn't seen the alien move, but another red mark was appearing on his arm. The floor was cold, colder than the bench was, and he sprang up a bit unsteadily. "What do you want from me?"
A stinging pain like a slap sevenfold sliced across his cheek, and in surprise he put his fingers to it and they came away red.
There was blood on the alien's claw, and he stared at it. It'd been an age since anything not a nation had harmed him. To his disgust, the alien brought the claw to its mouth and tasted it, serpent-like black tongue flicking out and back in. Claws shinked back into the alien's palms.
The pale-skinned creature seemed to glide towards him; he kicked at it, and the claws flashed out of their sheaths and sliced lightly across his ribcage. In the time it took for him to flinch, it moved into his face.
France tried punching at it, maybe knock the wind out of it and crack the tray across its skull-
He glanced around. The tray was gone. Figures. Just when I actually need it.
The tail wound around him, squeezing him so tight he thought his bones would crack, and he pried inefficiently at the coils. Eventually, he struggled for breath and hoped his bones wouldn't crack. Just as black spots began eating his vision, it released him. He slid gracelessly to the ground and landed in a pile of limbs, his ribs shrieking.
The alien turned to leave, and France propped himself up to see it. Angry again, rage in his blood and bubbling round his head, he spat, "Can't even kill me properly, eh?" though his common sense was telling him it was a terrible idea.
It was a terrible idea. The alien whirled, tail flying, and before he knew it he'd been stung. It burned hot, hotter than fire, than the rage of moments ago, and it was never-ending and everlasting.
France felt the silver liquid fill his mouth, dribbling out the corners to form a puddle on the ground.
He heard the click of claws as the alien walked through the bars.
He heard his breaths, rattling as they forced their way through his lips.
He heard silence.