It had taken nearly all day for Denmark to get where he was. (Damn Rednecks.)

And he wasn't entirely sure where that was, either.

He had been to D.C. before, of course, for meetings and parties and whatnot, but the city was almost completely destroyed.

Weapons' manufacturers did not mess around.

Based on the composition of the rubble around him, he shouldn't be too far from America's house (or what was left of it).

He had already searched what he thought was the pile that used to be America's house. Nothing.

He looked around, trying to find a clue about where the missing might be.

Something caught his eye. Sunlight glinted off a piece of glass down the street. It was probably nothing; there was broken glass everywhere.

But… what if it wasn't nothing?

He strode over to investigate.

The reflection was caused by a mangled pair of glasses- America's.

Oh God.

A scrap of cloth- its color indeterminate- caught his eye next.

He picked it up. It felt an awful lot like uniform material.

Frantically, he began digging through the rubble.

He only stopped when his fingers came in contact with something soft and utterly different than the stone.

He took a deep breath and began removing the stone more slowly.

It did not take long to find something- rather, someone.

America.

Denmark felt sick. He'd done this. This was his fault.

He checked for pulse, although there was little hope; the front of America's shirt was completely red (with no indication of its previous color) and there were many large holes, the largest of which was right over where his heart should be.

To Denmark's surprise, there was a pulse, though it was too faint, and far too slow.

"America?"

America's eyes opened. They were unfocused and pain-clouded, but he was alive and conscious. He could still be saved.

"Denmark…" he breathed, his voice o faint that Denmark had to lean in to hear.

"Denmark, forgive- me. I was…wrong." Blood spilled from one corner of his mouth.

"No, it's ok! We'll get through this. We'll get you some help. Just hold on…Where- where is Norway?"

America shook his head. "It's too late for me. As for Norway… the explosion…I don't- know." He closed his eyes. "Denmark, I'm very tired…and cold…"

"No, stay with me! Help will be here soon. Come on, stay with me!"

"I'm talking, so…shut…up… I need you to- find someone to take my place… This is a great land, and there are great…people…I don't want it all to be destroyed…"

"America, you have to-!"

"Tell Ivan…no, tell Vanya," he corrected himself, "tell him that I…"

Denmark would never find out what he was supposed to tell Russia, for those were the very last words the United States of America would ever speak.

Denmark didn't know this yet. "America? America, wake up! The world needs you!"

He checked for a pulse. There was none.

He tried CPR. That only caused more blood to seep through America's shirt.

Finally, even Denmark had to accept it: America was gone. For good. And there was nothing anyone could do about it.

Nations spend large parts of their lives watching history being made. And this involves, more often than not, humans dying.

But never, not in Denmark's memory, another nation.

Tears flowed down his face. Why had this happened? Nations weren't supposed to die. Not ever.

A shadow fell across the ground. Denmark wiped his eyes and hastily looked up.

Switzerland stood over him. "He's…?"

"Yeah."

"That's too bad. The world will miss him. He had a lot of potential." Switzerland removed his hat and stuffed it into his pocket.

Denmark felt numb. America, his friend, was gone. Forever. And it was his fault, though he hadn't meant for this to happen.

"Norway might be nearby. You go look for him, Denmark. I'll take care of…well, I've got this."

Denmark nodded and stood. "Thank you, Switzerland."

Almost immediately, he felt a bizarre tugging sensation in his head. Curiously, he followed it.

The tugging led him to a small pile of rubble. A tiny scrap of navy blue fabric caught his eye.

This was it, then. Norway (or his body, the pessimistic voice in Denmark's mind interjected) was here.

He began digging.

He unearthed Norway's upper body first. Norway's eyes were closed, bruises covered his exposed skin, a thin stream of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, and another streamed from one eye.

Quickly, Denmark searched for a pulse in his neck.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Then… beat…beat….beat…..beat…beat

His pulse was getting fainter, the beats getting farther and farther apart.

Hurriedly, Denmark removed the rest of the rubble and did a damage assessment. (It really was a good thing he'd been around so much death when he was younger; he could handle this with a cool head.)

Left leg: broken in at least two places.

Left arm: broken at least once.

Left hand: shattered. If Finland couldn't fix it, it would have to be amputated.

Chest: Unknown. The front of Norway's shirt obscured the damage, but it was completely red with blood. Possible broken ribs, and based on the blood coming from Norway's mouth, a punctured lung.

Norway needed to be taken back to the ship ASAP if he was going to survive.

But he couldn't be moved yet, not without a stretcher and a neck brace. Crippling spinal injuries were not something to mess around with.

Denmark sat back. He had no way of contacting anyone, since to radios they were using were old and wouldn't work because of the debris kicked into the atmosphere by the bombs.

A tiny movement caught his eye.

He turned his head just a little. It wasn't a movement at all; it was a flicker.

The flicker of what Norway had once called his "fairy light."

Denmark had no idea what it would mean if it went out, but he had a feeling that it wouldn't be good.

"Come on, Norge. You gotta hold on. We've all come too far for you to die now. Just a few minutes longer. Come on. You can do it."

He murmured the words, as if they might help, and perhaps they did, for not a minute later, Finland ran up, carrying a large, flat package. "Denmark!"

"That's a stretcher, right?"

"Yes." Finland began setting it down.

"Good, I need it."

"Why-?"

As Denmark stood, Finland was able to see Norway.

"Oh God."

"Yeah, come on, we don't have time to waste."

The stretcher was easy enough to set up: pull on the handles it they locked into place, the secure the fabric.

After the stretcher was set up, Denmark carefully put the brace around Norway's neck.

"On three, Ready?" Denmark began as he prepared to lift Norway onto the stretcher with Finland's help.

"Ready."

"1…2…3!"

They heaved him onto the stretcher, careful not to jostle any of his limbs.

"You got that end, Finland?"

"Yeah."

"Good. We need to hurry."

Once there, Norway was rushed to the infirmary, Denmark and Finland right behind. (Denmark really didn't trust any of the human doctors; after all, they had, at most, 50 years of study. He had more than a thousand.)

They washed their hands (three times, per Finland's insistence) and readied themselves for the intensive procedure of saving another nation's life.

A/N: I'm not going to apologize for this chapter, FYI. Although, I'm sure that some of you could see it coming (and some of you pestered me enough that I told you).

I feel like the use of "Vanya" is pretty telling about certain things. And that's all the confirmation you're going to get.

I could be evil, it's true.