Author's Note:
OH S***, my mom is gonna kill me later...please send me good vibrations wherever you guys are.
This kinda played in my mind since the mention of the Italians and NA twins in a mercenary service or something...so yeah, hope you like it.
unrequited is still nowhere near completion.
to guest,
are you the same person from before? I mean, I actually know that Denmark and America have been allies for a long time. Did my research when I got obsessed with DenAme. Actually, in my-verse (908) they didn't exactly meet when they were supposed to, America metNlrway instead..your suggestion actually made me want to write you guys why...it'll be important to unrequited, but it is not included in the said story so maybe it is okay for me to show you...next week! THANKS! GUEEEESSST! please, leave me a name next time. XD, I love ya!
GCJakey's Note:
I love this idea so much, it's just so cool. But somebody's gonna outshine the rest again...LOL.
this fic showcases the formal debut of Denmark's power in Randomness!
COMMENT. SUGGEST. FAVE FOLLOW.
Hetalia is not ours!
Warnings: Spy/mercenary/antihero?!NA twins, Italy brothers, and Denmark.
Deck of Death
1940s in a city somewhere in France
A man, probably forty, Italian, gel-enveloped graying hair, chubby but sturdy, pasty-wrinkled skin, tired...very tired, and jumpy. He was waiting on the end of an abandoned street. The wind was cold and eerie, his sweating hand was gripping on his black suitcase for dear life. His bodyguards were right by his side, three, muscular, tall and trained to kill.
Where was his ride?
He looked at his watch. His ride was already five minutes late. Was he left for dead? Were they already watching him? Were there guns already pointed on his back?
He shouldn't have done this...but the money...he's never seen such a huge amount before and he was sure that he never will again.
Just then a black Hersh pulled up, the man sighed heavily as the chauffeur rolled the window down.
"Mi dispiace davvero, mio buon signore." The driver apologized. The young man had amber eyes, rich brown hair with a dainty curl, and a happy smile.
"va bene." The man was instantly comforted upon hearing his native tongue. They got into the car, feeling the sanctity of the small curtained confines. He was squished between his two men, with the third seating next to the young unsuspecting driver.
But was he really what he seems?
"Signore Cuelo...Marcello Cuelo, sì?" The young man's smile was seen by the reflector, the man sat up rigidly.
"Sì..." He answered anyway.
"...you've been in contact with geneticist, Karl Weidervolk...you have his files, sì?" Before Marcello could answer in panic, the three men pointed guns at the young man.
"Now, now...let us not be hasty..." He snickered before turning to sharp curve that sent stray bullets flying. A knife got flung to the right bodyguard's hand and another on the left one's shoulder.
"I told you~..." The young Italian had one feet on the wheel and both hands free to snap the third man's neck. "...now, the files, Signore?" He put his free hand out with the unconscious bodyguard's head resting on his lap.
"N-no!" One of the wounded men fought, with his gun only inches from the snickering driver's face. The driver seat fell all the way down causing the man to shoot the glass of the car. The feet on the wheel was launched to kick the gun off his hand and onto the trained mercenary's hand.
*bang**bang*
Both men were shot to the point of unconsciousness.
There was no need for collateral,after all.
"...Now Marcello, there is no need t-" before he could finish, the said man jumped out of the car and rolled his way a few blocks away from a fancy casino-hotel. He struggled to stand up but he managed to limp in a haste.
A few more blocks away and the Hersh was abandoned with the three sleeping men, medics were already called and were on their way.
The young Italian took off his fedora hat and baggy blazer, revealing an off-white collared shirt with suspenders, he took out his communicator.
"King of Hearts here...the package is in your turf now, Clubs..." He smiled before heading off to the rendezvous point.
The Casino was packed with gangsters, mob-leaders, strippers, and drug lords. Marcelo passed through them with difficulty as it was packed with people. However, he felt safer...there was no way he could catch him. He could just contact the others later, what's more important is to keep him and the package safe.
Suddenly there was a wall of bullets and smoke, everybody ducked for cover. The man hid under a counter top, cowering for his life. Then he felt a strong hand grab him by the shoulder and practically lift him towards the elevator.
He opened his eyes slowly after he was pushed down to the elevator floor, seeing his savior. His hair was soft champagne blonde, wavy and neatly tucked into a loose pony. His eyes were beguiling like purple pearls and his skin was a lively kind of pale. His body looked huge under his typical business suit, sweat already permeating his collar.
"...Marcus Labeau..." He extended his hand to help him up. "Villa sent me..." His French accent was very strong. The man was too thankful for the young French that he failed to notice the said French's mischievous smile.
*ding*
The elevator stopped, Mr. Cuelo shakily got out leading them both to a seemingly peaceful hallway, filled with gilded apparel, mirrors, and artwork.
"You are late, Marcelo..." An old man with balding hair and soggy skin greeted them at the end of the hall, he had an army of highly trained assassins, willing to take anybody out. He was Villa the head of the whole operation. "...who is your friend...?"
"I heard, Monsieur, that you have files for a certain...experiment...it is illegal, oui?" The young French man looked teasingly at the bag of bones, gripping on his bony hands to shake respectfully.
"Matthew Williams..." Marcus's accent dropped dead like a fly, he step in front of Marcelo his back facing the prehistoric ring master. The Italian man could feel his heart going to cardiac arrest, he has been fooled.
"...you're not going anywhere with those files..."
"Fire!" Villa ordered and just like that the lights went off and the guns were fired. There were gasps and screams but none ceasefired. In a good twenty seconds the lights were turned on.
Twenty men were dead on the floor with bullet wounds everywhere and even Villa was dead, a bullet entered his weak heart.
"You're next, big guy!" Matthew's mouth was only inches away from the Italian's ear.
Marcelo ran for it, not caring that he was stepping on blood and dead bodies. He fell down the stairs and rolled continuously until he hit a fire exit. He tried opening it but it couldn't and the mercenary was drawing even nearer.
He kicked the door open and slid down the rails down to a disgusting black alley, but he didn't stop running, he had to finish the job.
Matthew snickered by the fallen door, watching the man ran desperately for his life. He got his communicator out.
"This is the King of Clubs, eh...you're next brother-diamond." The Canadian leaned smugly against the doorframe.
Marcelo pushed the doors of a bar loudly. He was falling down on his knees but he had to keep moving. He pulled himself up to a barstool, sweating like he was in the desert.
"Bonsoir, Monsieur..." He snapped his tired grey eyes at the young bartender who was cleaning his shot glasses. His frame was respectfully big and his skin was lightly tanned, being grazed by the sun only to a minute amount. He wore a white collared shirt with black armbands, a red vest, and a bow-tie. He looked very young and familiar...too familiar. Though instead of light champagne blonde, he had honey hair with touches of orange around the base and was cut shorter. His eyes were lapis-lazuli of the purest, not at all like the purple violets.
"...can I get you anything, Monsieur?" He asked politely but the older man respectfully declined. But the young French insisted, giving him a shot of his finest whiskey.
"I see you are running from somebody...money trouble, mon ami?" He snickered looking at the man's hand which did not dare let go of the suitcase. Marcelo nodded, bereft of air.
"...is it about turning men into bio-weapons...?" The French accent dissolved being replaced by a typical American one. "...like increased muscle mass...cell regeneration...heightened senses...animal parts...explosive appendages..." He trailed off, his cheek resting on his propped arm resting on the wooden counter top.
"Oh yeah...I'll give you five seconds to run..." He smiled, pushing the old man. Marcello darted out of the bar but just like that the American was already chasing him. He couldn't believe how fast the young man was or was it how slow he was? He couldn't tell and he probably should not think of that.
He saw a fire exit staircase on the side of a building and immediately climbed up the suspended rails, trying so hard to find safety. Once on the building's top floor, he threw rocks and rusty metal equipment at the relentless American who avoided each with ease, flipping and turning gracefully in an acrobatic fashion.
Marcello got his gun and started to shoot non-stop.
"You should seriously stop that, you'll waste bullets." The American taunted in a graceful back-bend position balancing on thin railings.
The Italian fell on his back as the mercenary leapt gracefully up the roof floor. He cornered the old man in such a predatory fashion, his eyes were now rich amber in color. His teeth were sharp and he looked very hungry. He pulled out his gun.
"Good night."
Marcello stood up and scurried away, barely avoiding each bullet. The American cursed half-heartedly, enjoying the game. He was missing each on purpose making sure to only graze the constantly moving man only by a centimeter or so. It was more challenging than just shooting him, if that was the game he would've shot him spot-on seven times already...eight.
The old man was cornered and looked down the dark alley, he had no choice. He had to jump.
Marcello screamed on top of his lungs as he jumped for it. He fell to the dark alley, breaking his legs...he was caught...he had nowhere else to go. He could probably curl into a ball and hide in a dumpster.
Still on the roof, the American opened his communicator. "This is diamond-hawk-eyed Jones speaking...King of Spades...yer up!"
There was a man wearing a heavy trench coat who walked up to the pitiful man who was gasping for air.
His eyes were yellow like lightning and his hair was brown with a slight red rust to it. He had a scowl and a gun pointed down at the smuggler.
"Please do not kill me!" Marcelo's voice was shaking, he has had a night with death staring at him at every corner. All he wanted was to rest...just for a minute.
"I must follow orders." He answered calmly, thick in an Italian accent.
"Ti prego...ti prego, signore..." He pleaded on his broken knees. His grey eyes glanced at his suitcase. He had to do it. It was all or nothing.
"YOU MADE ME DO THIS!" He roared, pulling out a syringe of green fluids and injecting it to himself.
His bones rearranged and his body became heavier, his jaws snapped and arms became longer. His teeth grew sharper, possessed by an animalistic craving of blood.
Veins pulsated loudly, with the blood vessels actually becoming more visible and each strand of muscle explode into sinews of cable wire. His tanned skin became bright red and his eyes turned white in craziness.
He swung his massive arm but the mercenary jumped out of the way. The said young man deployed a roundhouse kick to the head. The kick was stronger than how it looked, actually snapping his jaws and eliciting a roar of pain. Once his opponent was immobilized, he grabbed him by the head and tossed Marcello to the wall behind him. The walls cracked and the floor beneath became dented when the lumbering man fell.
Marcello was now defenseless, even with the serum in him...he could not stop the killers.
"Super soldiers for the highest bidder, sì? For the rich? The government? Illuminati? What the fuck is wrong with you bastardos?"
*click*
A gun pointed directly at him again, he closed his eyes.
*bang*
Marcello felt his heart stop but opened his eyes, he couldn't feel a thing but he wasn't dead. He looked around his body, finding not even one measly scratch. His body painfully crunching back to normal.
The mercenary calmly walked away with the suitcase.
"We do not kill...when not needed..."
"The mission's done, bastards! Can you imagine two fucking decades and now we're done for good?!" Romano came in the private bar with a bit of cheeriness in him, in contrast to the three who were moping around.
America was upside down on the couch and smoking. Canada placed his feet on the table and balanced himself on one leg of his chair, also smoking. And his brother was sipping some tea (thank God), sitting on the floor.
They remembered the first missions, it was different from war since you never had the time to look at the faces of the people you killed. They went on solo missions most of the time, so they were very proficient in killing even without the others. However, this was supposed to be the night of their last mission and their head gave them the choice whether to kill their target or not...
"You'd think that they'll happy finally not being forced to kill somebody..." The Italian said loudly to himself.
"It's not that, Lovino...it's just" Canada sat properly, looking at him through his glasses.
"We were all forced to take part of this...to stop mafia-related stuff, militarian corruption, illegal experiments, conspiracy stuff...we were forced to kill who they wanted dead...we didn't like it remember?" Italy added.
"No one could understand how much guilt we experienced...except each other...we're like a family, we had each other's backs...fuck, sometimes we even go far as to defend each other during meetings...if they only knew, right?" America flipped to his feet, rolling his sleeves up.
"And with the war coming...I don't see how we can still defend each other..." Canada walked towards his twin, leaving the two Italians on the other side of the room.
"It might have been sick to have bonded over such a mundane experience...but we still did..." America exhaled smoke through his nose.
"Sì, fratello...don't you feel the same way?" Feliciano stood up looking at his brother's almost identical amber eyes.
"I do, you bastards!" Lovino pulled everybody in for a meaningful hug, all of them were crying except for America who has long lost all his tears many years ago.
"We still have one more mission bastardos...we can st-"
*ring**ring*
"What?!" Romano answered his communicator. His annoyed face became that of shock and his whole façade was wet from the sweat.
"But w-"
"Are you s-"
"But seriou-"
"Fine."
He closed his device.
"Somebody just finished our mission." He informed the three regrettably.
"WHO?" All three asked in unison.
"Anonymous freelance agent...even the head doesn't know who." Romano crossed his arms in contempt of the mystery man or woman.
"We cannot fret about it now, just be careful you Allied...Allied m-morons!" Feli hugged the twins tightly, rubbing his tears all over their shirts.
"You too, Axis freaks..." America ruffled the Italian's chocolate hair.
The three looked at Lovino who was snickering. Said nation pulled his sleeve down. Showing a simple silver chain bracelet with a black spade dangling from it.
The three smirked, Canada and Italy pulled their own sleeves down. America took off his glove.
America had a thorn wrist tattoo and an old looking bracelet that was browned from what Canada told the Europeans for an eon. It had red and brown braids and a wooden totem of some sort of animal neither could make out. His silver bracelet had a black diamond.
Canada had a huge bite-mark from a bear in his forearm. His bracelet had a black club.
Italy's hand was littered with scars that came from bushels of thick thorns and barbed wires. His bracelet had a red heart.
They brought their fists out, in a four-way fist bump.
"DECK OF DEATH!" The four said in unison.
A few minutes earlier on the other side of town.
The Dane wore a slick red shirt that hugged his huge yet beautiful body tightly. He was definitely powerful in appearance like he was Thor himself. Well...let's take out the long hair and the loin cloth...and he definitely looked better than him, just sayin'.
He breathed heavily, unbuttoning his shirt to change into a new one. His glorious drenched body shined with the help of the room's light. He slicked his hair back, looking more regal and sophisticated than ever before.
He looked behind him, seeing the trail of battered bodies. They were about twenty maybe thirty but they were not human at least not a anymore. Dr. Weidervolk has been experimenting on steroids, creating monstrous creatures that only knew how to destroy. Pitiful, considering they were once men with families and a life.
He faced about ten juggernauts that were ten-feet tall and the size of a brick wall. Heads the size of pinballs in contrast to the wrecking ball biceps (he might not have been exaggerating) and concrete posts for legs.
Then there were the slicers with bio-metal dripping with hydrochloric acid. Their hands turned into sickles and skin were stretch over nothing but bones with the veins practically ripping through the thin wrapping.
Then there were the bombers, they flung their explosive removable body parts at enemies. They were all veiny and sickly, he could hear their blood pulse without getting near and he could hear their peanut-sized brains gearing, ripping out their organs to fling at him. All, however, fell with the aid of a half-loaded gun and a knife in the hands of a very capable fighter.
It was very disgusting to look at, as green sludge oozed out the corpses. All he could feel was anger for the one who caused all this, technology had its fucking ups and downs...but this was too much. This was like fucking hell already.
At least this was his last mission before retirement, the last before he could finally rest and wash the blood off his hands...fifty years is a long time. Fifty years alone is an eternity. Oh wait...he's been alone for longer...
Denmark headed down to the hall and in to the room at the edge of the right wing.
"Havin' a good time, Dr. Wiedervolk?" He leaned against the door, smirking like a mischievous fox.
He looked at the mastermind in all his pale, sickly glory. Snot came for his bushy nose and he reeked like dead fish. His hair was white and tased in all directions and his skin looked patchy and molted. He was sweating like crazy, permeating through his lab coat and pants. His glasses already fogging. He was tied down the mattress with a drop of water periodically hitting his exposed, bulbous forehead. His eyes were opening and closing in time with the water, his frail chest heaving to get more air in his lungs.
Denmark took out his own glasses and perched it up his nose-bridge.
"A-alright...alright...the code is ZSD347!" The doctor begged, crying like a child. He could not handle it anymore, he has been in this position for hours.
"Undsklyd, min ven...you are lying and plus I already knew the code like an hour ago!" The Dane buttoned his white shirt with a huge grin.
"Lügner!" Karl screamed, going insane already. Wasn't his torture enough? How the fuck did he know he was lying?
"Ich bin nicht lügen, I am just that awesome." Matthias taunted before heading out the door.
"NEIN! NEIN! NEIIIIIIN!" The old man screamed, wanting to die rather than to experience one more second of the torture.
The Dane walked down the hall towards a safe, not minding the suicidal pleas of the old man. He dialed in the code and presto! It was unlocked. He let his icy-blue gems scour the numerous tubes of green bubbling liquid. It made him sick that someone would even want to destroy a person's body for the sake of power.
He lifted the huge safe on his broad shoulder, walking as if he didn't have a ton of metal resting on his shoulder. He went up to the roof, admiring the view it gave of the French city.
"Vive la France..." He said quietly but it did sound weird since the only thing popping on his mind was Francis in nothing but a rose cover his...Denmark shook his head, now that was a disgusting idea.
He placed a bomb in the safe before closing it. He opened his right hand and aimed for the safe, only a few feet away from the said object. Frost and ice developed in an instant. It made a mountain of ice, meters thick, encasing the safe in unbreakable ice.
His eyes glowed blue and slitted and his every breath was cold and visible as he concentrated in forming more and more ice.
*BMMMMPPPFFFFTTTTT!*
The safe exploded but left the ice in one piece. French Intelligence would be here in a couple of minutes to clean up, making sure no civilians would now of the horrid biological experimentation that was going on under their noses.
He walked away quietly, leaving the sobbing old man and the pile of dead experiments...he still had a train to catch. His boss would be missing him too much.
Matthias Køhler, the shadow player, has always been the one to take the riskiest missions in solitude and in secrecy. He has always been described as having all the trumps and spare jacks. Hence, he has been named the card master.