Look out, y'all. Here comes the crazy.

Warning: A scary scene, fight scene, weapons, threats, poking fun at France, angst (and ignore the fact that I only wrote Scotland with an accent. I was too lazy to do Northern Ireland and Wales, meh. That and I've already written Scotland with an accent earlier in this fic and gotta keep him the same).

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

Gathering Storm

Arthur stood in complete blackness, squinting around for some sort of light. "Hello? Hello!"

"Arthur,"

The Briton blinked and turned around. "Oh… oh my God." Tears flooded his eyes. He had never been happier to see them in his entire life despite all the resentment held between them. "Ian, Bryce, Lennox…"

"It's good ta see ya, Artie." Lennox said, smiling as he held out his arms. "C'mere, little brother."

Arthur ran to them and hugged them all. "I…. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I couldn't save you, I—" He broke off into sobs.

"It's all righ'," Ian said. His hair was just as red as when he was alive. A few more tears slipped down Arthur's face.

"We're okay," Bryce assured, patting Arthur's shoulder. "Really."

"We miss ya." Lennox murmured, ruffling Arthur's hair—a gesture that used to annoy the hell out of Arthur, but now comforted him greatly. "Yer doin' a good job, keepin' yer head."

"Th-thank you," Arthur sniffed and hugged Lennox around the middle. Oh God. He smelled like cigarettes. Just like those horrid cigarettes that he used to smoke. Arthur sobbed a little.

"Bu'," Lennox said, his voice dropping an octave. Arthur sniffed again, but opened his eyes when he felt liquid trickle onto his sleeve. Some dropped onto his nose. It was red.

Arthur let go of Lennox and backed away. "No,"

All three of them were covered in blood, dripping down their bodies and pooling on the black, ethreal floor. Arthur stared in horror.

"It wasn't enough," Bryce said, glaring.

"You've never been good enough." Ian growled. "You failed."

"Ya killed us, Arthur." Lennox spat. His gaze was malicious as blood covered his face. Just like when Arthur had saw him shot. "And before long, you'll lose everyone ya love."

"No," Arthur shook his head and backed away. The blood from them was pooling rapidly, spreading to his shoes.

"Yes," Ian said. "An' it's all your fault. All of it."

"You will never be able to save anyone." Bryce added spitefully.

"You're a failure, Artie," Lennox snarled. "They'll all bleed before the end—because of you."

"N-no," Arthur felt warm liquid run over his hands and he looked down at them. They were covered in blood. "No!" He tried to step back from the blood pooling at his feet and slipped, going down on his back. He went to get up, but the blood clung to him, little red hands trailing up his arms, his shoulders, his face, until he was covered in it. Covered in the blood that he'd spilled from his failures.

"I won't! I won't!" Arthur shouted, writhing. "I won't let them die!" And then he was swallowed up by the blood, slipping down into the floor, falling through blackness, through nothing…

"Pay!" came a booming voice that seemed to claw at his very skull. Arthur yelped and covered his ears. "Pay for your sins! Pay in the blood of those you love!"

And then a fiery maw opened below him, fangs dripping blood, black forked tongue darting out to meet him. Arthur screamed as he fell into the open jaws.

"Die in a pool of your sins!"

"NO!"

"Artie! Artie!" Alfred shouted, shaking Arthur awake. "Arthur!"

Arthur's eyes snapped open, the pupils dialated. He blinked up at Alfred, who was staring worriedly down at him. "A-Alfred?"

"Artie," Alfred muttered, looking around. Good, everyone was still asleep. "What the fuck was that?"

Arthur shook his head, trying to get his breathing and rapidly-beating heart under control. "I… it was a nightmare. Just a nightmare…" A horrible, bloody nightmare… He was still shaking and was soaked with sweat.

"Christ," Alfred said with relief. "By the way you were thrashing, I thought you were seizing or something…"

"Oh God," Arthur wiped his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. He could care less about the filth on his clothing. "That was quite an intense one."

"I could tell." Alfred said. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'll be fine." Arthur replied, though he wasn't convinced himself. The nightmare had shaken him to his core. "How much sleep have you had?"

Alfred sighed. "Well, Kik just relieved me, though he said he had to take a piss so he'll be back. I was just settling down when you started talking in your sleep."

Arthur stiffened. "What did I say?"

"'Lennox'," Alfred said. "'Ian', 'Bryce'… your brothers. Then 'no' and 'I won't.'" He paused, thinking, then asked, "What were you dreaming about, Artie?"

Arthur shook his head and rolled over, though he wanted nothing more than to take Alfred in his arms and hold him. "My brothers… it's nothing. A nightmare. About their deaths. That's all."

Alfred scoffed. "'That's all'? Such a liar. If I dreamed about you or Mattie dying, I wouldn't say it was just nothing."

Arthur glanced back at him. "Alfred, that's not what I meant. I'm just… I'm tired, and I'm stressed, and… it hurts to think about."

Alfred felt like an ass. "Artie, I—"

"It's okay, Alfred." Arthur muttered and turned over. "I just want to sleep."

Alfred sat there for a moment, guilt clenching his stomach. He didn't know what else to say, so he rubbed Arthur's shoulder and crawled back over to Ivan's sleeping bag. He wished he could move it so that he could be closer to Arthur. It was very rare that the Briton was ever this shaken.

Arthur took a deep breath and tried to expel his nightmare from his mind. But the reality was too stark, the possibilities too real—

The Uprising wasn't even halfway over. And many more would die before the end.

But Arthur refused to let the blood spill for his faults.

Francis lay there, staring at Arthur's back, wondering if the Briton was all right.

Last night, he had heard Arthur kicking and mumbling in his sleep—crying. But he had decided to feign sleep so as to not wound Arthur's pride.

He wanted to crawl over to Arthur, to slip into his sleeping bag with him, and hold him, tell him it was okay, that they were going to make it.

But he didn't know if everyone was going to make it.

His eyes floated over to Feliciano, sleeping peacefully by his brother, his face content and innocent. Would he be next? Or his brother, Lovino? Or maybe his own little Matthew?

It could be anyone.

The fact that none of them knew when or if they were going was getting to Francis. Ever since he and Arthur had made a connection, ever since Matthew had injured himself… the paranoia was wreaking havoc on his mind every hour of every day. He didn't think he could stand to see Arthur or Matthew die, or anyone else for that matter. But if it were Arthur or Matthew, he would break down, and there would be nothing that would help him.

And Arthur. Francis loved him dearly. Why couldn't he have seen that earlier? They could have had so much time together before the Uprising. And now he feared that he would end up like poor Lovino—his lover shot dead right after they had gotten together. It was a scary thought.

I love you so much, Arthur. Francis mused as he studied Arthur's side, rising and falling with each soft breath. When will you realize that?

He decided to get up. Laying and brooding over death was depressing him.

Francis got up and stepped over his sleeping comrades, deciding that some fresh air would do him good. He went to the back door (seeing as the front was boarded up) and unlocked it. He walked down the stairs outside and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a crinkled pack of cigarettes. There was only one left.

"Might as well smoke it." he muttered and slipped a lighter out of his pocket.

He lit up and took a pull, feeling himself relax already. He blew out through his nose and coughed a bit.

Okay. Too early in the morning for that.

He stiffened when he heard movement around the side of the house. He dropped his cigarette regretfully and snuffed it out in the dirt with his shoe. He went for the gun at his side, when he realized that he had left it back in the house.

Then Kiku rushed at him from around the corner, katana out and ready. He arrived in front of Francis, panting.

"Get back inside." Kiku said firmly, but Francis didn't move.

"I said get back inside!"

"Non," Francis muttered, slipping out a pocketknife. Thank God he still had the sense to have that on him. "I'm not leaving you. What's wrong?"

"Them," Kiku said, pointing at the group of five convicts who were now surrounding them. They were all well armed; shotguns, pistols, knives. One man even had an axe.

"They ambushed me." Kiku explained, cursing himself. This had been the second time on his watch that he had been caught off guard. Well, this time he had enough time to run before they could catch him. He was hoping to lead them into the woods behind the house and lose them, but Francis had spoiled his plan by showing up inconveniently.

"That's okay, ami." Francis said. "Now they have two to deal with."

"Hai," Kiku, though, didn't exactly feel safe with Francis as his partner. Considering his history in battle…

Still, he was better than nothing.

"What are you hiding in that house?" one convict asked, gun aimed at Kiku. "You have the front door all boarded up. You must have something valuable."

"Nothing," Kiku replied coolly. "Just us. We were looking for a safehouse."

Another convict laughed. "Yeah, well, some safehouse that was. The previous owners thought that too, but look where that got them. Did you see them?"

"Heartless bastards," Francis growled, brandishing his knife, though he felt foolish doing so in front of all of the better weapons aimed dangerously at him.

The convict with the axe shrugged. "When shit hits the fan, it's survival of the fittest. We just thought to put 'em out of their misery."

Kiku needed to wake the others. He knew he was drastically outmatched with just his katana and Francis. Thinking fast, he reached inconspicuously into his pocket. One of the men noticed just as he threw the shuriken, launching it across the space between them with deadly accuracy. But the man who noticed was prepared. He aimed his gun and shot twice. He hit the whirling blade on the second shot, and the echoing of the gunshot and the bullet hitting the metal reverberated throughout the area.

The man with the shotgun scowled when he realized what Kiku had done. "Kill them."

Bullets flew and Kiku had no problem deflecting them… but Francis had only a little blade. All the Frenchman could do was dodge, and he would not last long. Francis yelped as a bullet whizzed by his head, so close that it took some of his hair.

"Get behind me!" Kiku yelled, but just as he did, a bullet tore through the screen door and implanted itself in one of the convict's foreheads. They all stopped for a moment to watch him stagger and fall, bleeding, to the ground.

Ludwig threw open the door, handgun aimed, followed by Alfred, Arthur, Ivan, and Yao. Now the criminals were outnumbered.

Alfred scoffed as he cocked his shotgun. "Shoulda known."

But the convicts weren't fazed by the new arrivals. They were obviously experienced in this kind of situation, as they came at the nations like swooping hawks to prey. Ivan broke the jaw of one inmate with his pipe, while Yao finished him off with a blow to the back of the head, courtesy of his wok. They were all so distracted with defense, that none of them saw one of the convicts had snuck up behind them.

A convict rushed Francis, but the Frenchman dodged his axe by inches, ducking to plunge his pocketknife into his gut. The man stared at him in shock as he coughed up blood and fell to the ground. Reveling in his victory (which didn't come often enough with him), Francis didn't hear the footsteps behind him until it was too late.

The man grabbed him by his hair and tugged. Francis's head snapped backward, and he shouted only for the barrel of a gun to be pressed to his head. The fighting slowed to a halt.

"We came here to take what we need." the convict holding Francis hostage growled. "But it's obvious that you're not gonna come easy. So, we'll just take something for ransom." He tugged on Francis's hair again, and the Frenchman grunted. "Now, unless you want this pussy to die, I suggest you lower your weapons."

Reluctantly, they did.

The other remaining convict joined his comrade. "Great work, Jamal."

Jamal scoffed. "Simple tactics. I learned them in the Marines."

"What do you want for him?" Alfred asked. He didn't negotiate with terrorists (that was his policy), but Francis was kind of more important than the average human hostage. "Food? Weapons? Ammo? What?"

Jamal laughed. "Nah, none of those. We got plenty of them. But you see, this is our territory. Home to the Wolf Pack. And you know what wolves do to trespassers, right?" He slid a thumb across Francis's neck in a slicing motion. "Dead. Meat. I'll tell you now that we work with the Organization, but we ain't part of it. Nah, we just profit from it. You see, if we turn in potential rebels to them, we get all the stuff that we need. That being said, we hunt. And the rest of you had better be wary, 'cause you're next on our list. We'll take this one for now, but tomorrow, we're returning triple the force. We're gonna take you down and turn you in. Sound good?"

"And what makes you think we'll come quietly?" Arthur spat, furious.

Jamal pressed the gun harder into Francis's temple. "If you want him to live, you'll be just peachy for us."

Francis thought he saw a flicker of fear pass behind Arthur's eyes, but it was only for a moment. The nations were quiet. They didn't know what to say.

Francis felt his heart pounding. They were going to take him away. These thugs. And the others couldn't help him.

Jamal began to walk backwards to the woods, the other convict pointing his gun at Francis as well. "Well, I guess we'll see ya around."

A minute later, the convicts had disappeared into the woods and Francis with them.

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Oh noes! France has been taken captive! (Now, where have I seen that before, hmmm? XD) No, seriously. Shit's about to go down. Way, way down. Down to hell. You'll find out what I'm talking about as you go along, in the mean time just pay attention to the details!

And I know most of you probably just skipped over my commentary because you wanted to see what happened to France. Well cool your tits, bros, the next chappie's not going anywhere, got it?