The OCs have names (and a back story... sort of)! OAO

Warning: Angst, weapons, threats, abuse, reference to miscarriage, reference to rape, just a whole lotta shit I'm sure you're all used to by now.

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

The Hosts

Silence pervaded the van.

No one spoke for a long time, their eyes occasionally wandered to watch out of the windows, but always they returned to the two mysterious figures in the front seats.

"Who are you?" Ivan finally asked, his voice devoid of every childlike aspect. It was deep and demanding, leaving no room for evasion. "And why did you save us?"

The one in the passenger's seat spoke, "You were running from the Organization bounty hunters. We had every reason to stop and pick you up." It was a woman.

A suspicious knot formed in Ivan's gut. "You have not answered my first question."

A moment of silence passed, then she spoke again, "Let's play a game: I ask you a question, and you ask me a question after. The only rule is that you must answer my every question and truthfully."

Ivan frowned, not liking how she was manipulating him. But he would play along if it meant extracting information. "All right. Go ahead."

Alfred grabbed his leg and peered up at him, eyes wide. "Ivan," he mouthed, but it was too late. The game had already begun.

Without turning around, the woman began, "Your accent is Russian, I believe. Are you a citizen here or of your native Russia?"

Ivan held back a snort of derision. "Russia," Now it was his turn. He thought for a moment. "Where are you going to?"

"A safehouse in Illinois."

"Where in Illinois?"

The woman chuckled. "You forget, sir. Now it is my turn. Why are you here?"

"A business trip. I was trapped here when the Uprising began and the airports shut down."

The woman laughed again. "Now, don't give me that crap. Every foreigner says that. It's common knowledge that every one of them has been trapped here since they flew in on business. I suggest you correct your answer or this game will be done and you will hear nothing more from me."

Ivan struggled to keep his temper in check. He couldn't afford to get them kicked out of the van and separated from everyone else. He cleared his throat. "I am a fisherman from Siberia. I used to work on the Bering Sea and live on Big Diomede Island. A few months ago a storm forced my crew and I to land in Alaska. Our ship was damaged during the storm and we decided to fly down into Washington to see the sights. The Uprising trapped us here." He paused to think, then said, "What did the Organization do to you and your companions that made you hate them so much?"

The woman didn't answer for a moment. Then she replied, "We are all from broken households. I lost my husband to them, and they took my son from me." She brooded silently before asking, "You say that you have been traveling with your shipmates, but your friends hardly sound Russian to me. Who are you really?"

"I am who I say I am." Ivan chose his words carefully now. The woman was starting to get suspicious. "We were ambushed by Organization men, and I was the only one of the crew to survive. I travel with those who are against the Organization. What did they do to your son?" Ivan knew it was a sensitive question and that he was pushing his limit asking it, but he had to know just how dangerous the Organization really was.

The woman swallowed. "Killed him—they kicked me in the stomach." Her voice was stony, giving no hint of grief. She had been hardened.

Ivan really felt like an ass now. "I am sorry."

"Don't be. You know, I had a grandfather who was an Alaskan fisherman." Ivan stiffened. "And he worked the Aleutian Islands and lived on Little Diomede Island. Tell me, what kind of fish makes up the majority of your catch?"

Ivan forced the tension out of his shoulders and answered calmly, "It depends on the season and the location. But I was employed as a king crab fisherman and most of the fish we caught in our pots and threw back or used as bait were cod. How many of you are traveling together?"

"Five in all. You?"

"Tw—eleven. We lost one to the river last night." Beside Francis, Matthew's throat clenched in grief.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"He was very brave and we will miss him. What is your name?"

The woman's smile was evident in her voice. "Jeanne. All of you?"

Everyone in the backseat looked at him, but Ivan was in control now. He would decide whether or not it was best to give their identities. Ivan knew he was being harsh by saying this, but he had to have proof that this woman and her friends were people they could trust. "Let me see where they kicked you."

Jeanne stiffened a bit and didn't move for a good minute. Just when Ivan was getting suspicious about her previous answers, Jeanne unbuckled her seatbelt, turned in her seat, and faced them.

She was young and pretty, with short brown hair and a freckled face, but her green eyes were hard. She rolled up her shirt, exposing her belly which was still rounded with traces of pregnancy. The bruise there was purple and a sickly yellow, spreading nearly from hip to hip. There were some places where there was a bruise in the shape of a heel or tip of a shoe. Ivan looked up at her face once he was done examining and found her expressionless.

"Convinced, or would you like to see my dead son as well?"

"No, thank you. That will be all."

Jeanne yanked down her shirt and sat back in her seat. "Now, my question needs answering. What are all of your names?" She clicked in her seat belt.

"I am Ivan." Ivan began, and the other looked at him in horror. But Ivan somewhat trusted this woman; the bruise on her stomach was more than adequate evidence as to which side she was on. "And these are Alfred, Arthur, Francis, and Matthew. The other van contains Gilbert, Lovino, Yao, and Kiku. In the truck are Ludwig and Feliciano."

Arthur could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Ivan was giving away their most valuable information, information that could save them or kill them: their names. The Brit was beyond furious, he was enraged. Who had given him the right? But he couldn't afford to berate him now without attracting suspicion, so he was forced to keep his mouth shut. For now.

Jeanne seemed more cheery now—possibly because she thought she had the upper hand, knowing all of their names. "Alfred, you said? I do believe the Organization is looking for an Alfred. Would his full name happen to be Alfred F. Jones?"

Alfred tensed noticeably in his seat. He thought he saw the driver glance at him through the rearview mirror, but he could just be seeing things. His hand tightened on Ivan's thigh. No, he thought. No, no, not this. I'm not ready yet. Dammit, Ivan, I'm going to kill you! But he was far from being able to throttle the Russian… in fact, he was just plain terrified. He looked up at Ivan with wide, white eyes, but Ivan was determined to remain stoic and sure, and so he was ignored.

Despite his calm exterior, Ivan was a churning mess on the inside. Oh God, what had he done? They knew, they knew. And even if he told them that this was a different Alfred, they still wouldn't believe him—if they had heard his name, they had surely seen his face that was no doubt being put up on posters everywhere. But he couldn't afford to hesitate. He had to answer.

Thinking fast, Ivan said, "I had not heard of the Organization searching for someone."

"That is not an answer."

"It is not," he admitted. "I need more information if I am to determine if the Organization is after my companion."

The woman chuckled, and Ivan knew she knew she had him cornered. "Very well. The Organization has put up his poster everywhere, and they have begun building large screens in major cities with your companion's face lit up in billions of high-resolution pixels for all to see."

Ivan felt Alfred flinch beside him, and his nails dug into his leg.

"What is his profile?"

"Dark blond hair, glasses, blue eyes, relatively tall, has a prominent cowlick."

No, Ivan thought, and he looked down at Alfred, who was trembling now. The younger man peered up at him, mouthing Don't. He knew Ivan better than Ivan had thought. He knew just what he was thinking about doing.

But it was too late to go back now. One of his hands dipped into his coat, fingers brushing the sleek AK-47 hidden in the folds. This could be it. They might have to bail. But keeping together wasn't Ivan's primary goal, it was keeping Alfred alive, and if that meant splitting from the group then he would surely do it.

But he wasn't going to let these people get away knowing they had found Alfred F. Jones and so tell everyone where he may be. That was just too risky.

So he wrapped an arm around Alfred's shoulder… and slipped his handgun out of the holster at his side. Then, when the driver wasn't looking Ivan lunged forward, snatching up Jeanne's hair and pointing the gun to her temple.

"If you mean us any sort of harm," he growled, disabling the weapon's safety lock. "Do not think I will not kill you and leave your body on the side of the road. Your sad story will not guilt me, I assure you."

The man driving looked over at him, his eyes wide and his face pale. "H-hey, man, chill. We're not going to—"

"Shut up," Ivan barked at him. "And watch the road." And the man did so, though he couldn't keep his eyes from glancing over to them every few seconds.

Jeanne licked her lips and swallowed. Her face was completely calm, but she was trembling noticeably. "Would you harm a fellow survivor? A resister?"

"I would harm a murderer."

"Did I say that I was? Do you honestly think my group, only five in number, would try to capture or kill you if you outnumber us two to one?"

Ivan pressed the barrel further into her head. "Where have you come from and where are you going? Answer me slowly or deceitfully and I will plant a bullet in your brain."

Jeanne licked her lips again. "I am from Astoria, Washington. We are all from the northwest, except for Carter here." She nodded to the driver with the blue baseball cap and thick glasses. "He's from southern California. I escaped from Organization clutches and found Gerald—the old, fat guy driving the truck, you'll see him as soon as we stop—and we decided to go south. Along the way our group grew, some were picked off. Same as you; we are fleeing the Organization."

Ivan frowned. "Why would they want you?"

"They want anyone who will bend to their will or break under pressure. They hunt everyone who resists them and forces them to obey them. Wonder why I'm the only woman in this group? The Organization herded them all up like sheep close to the beginning of their rule, giving them the sole duty of pleasing the men and expanding the population like breed sows. And I have heard that girls have become victims as well along with some young boys. Though they keep that last part quiet. They haven't gotten everyone conditioned to their philosophies just yet and the mutiny that would come with those reports would ruin them."

Ivan was silent for a moment, taking in Jeanne's determined expression and words. Then he said, "You are going to start a mutiny."

"More or less. No one murders my family and gets away with it. My son and husband's ghosts will be the banes of their existence once the fighting starts. I'll kill every last one of them if I have to, with my own two hands if need be. I know I could do it." Then, boldly, she turned to look at Ivan. The gun was now pressed to her forehead, but she was staring up at him with placid green eyes. "But, as you can imagine we need a much bigger force if we are to depose the Usurpers, and killing me would mean one less person who is strong enough to stand up to them."

They stared at each other for a moment, and, for a fleeting moment, Ivan saw Natalya. It wasn't as fierce, but it was in Jeanne's gaze: that strength and power. And Ivan knew how that strength and power came to her, for he too harbored it: by enduring some life agony. Ivan had gone through many, and he understood her need for vengeance. He lowered his weapon.

"We will join you," Ivan said, then he leaned in and whispered, "Close your eyes."

When Jeanne gave him a bewildered look and didn't obey, he hissed, "Close your eyes."

She did and Ivan made sure to keep the gun pressed to her head as he shut his own. He was very aware that everyone in the van was staring at them, but he ignored that and extended the tendrils of his mind to Jeanne's own. He tried to tread lightly, for he didn't want Jeanne to be alarmed nor have her find out what he was doing to her. But he had to know.

Slowly and trying not to disrupt her mind or alert it to his presence, he went through her memories.

She was young, a girl of seven at least, playing jump rope on the sidewalk outside her home. Her friends were giggling and singing as they turned the rope and Jeanne switched skillfully from leg to leg. Then there was a shout, and Jeanne's father stomped out of the house. He snatched her up by the arm and her friends dropped the rope, peering up at him with wide eyes. Jeanne was dragged into the house while her friends fled.

Then there was another Jeanne, thirteen, hair cut short and dyed with rebellion. Ivan got an almost suffocating feeling of being trapped, and Jeanne's father shouted. She looked over her shoulder and darted around her room, picking up a bag and scooping as many of her belongings as she could inside. That night she escaped for good.

She was sixteen now, alone and sleeping in a women's shelter. She had just been told that there was no longer room for her and she had to leave. Out on the dark, busy streets a veil of hopelessness fell over her and she just sat down and cried right on the curb. And then a feeling rose inside of her and spread like lightning to her limbs. Right then she knew she couldn't give up, because something was planned for her later on. She knew she was important, no matter how much her father had told her she was worthless. She would amount to something, society be damned.

At eighteen, she had finally scraped up enough money to afford some decent clothes and gotten a job at a gas station in a seedy part of town. One night, two masked men came in, banging on the counter, pointing a gun at her face, and demanding the cash. They certainly hadn't expected her to launch herself over the counter and punch one of them in the throat. She snatched the gun from his hand and aimed it at his friend, and she never saw the man again.

Then one day, not a year later, a man walked in who was more amiable than most. He had light hair, soft eyes, and a warm smile. Even when he bought something he always stayed around to talk with her, and these conversations got longer and longer by the day. Pretty soon, the man was coming to the station every day. He began to say that Jeanne was too pretty to be working in such a horrible place, that he could get her out of there. She told him elsewise, but the man insisted she come to an interview he'd arranged for her at his own station: a police station.

A couple years on, and Jeanne was at the highlight of her life. She and the man, both now honorable officers, had married and they owned a home together. Her childhood home was far from her thoughts, and she busied her days with patrols and chasing down criminals. When she found out she was pregnant, though, she thought her life was over. The freedom she had experienced while on the force had become so important to her. But her husband assured her that she would be a great mother. Jeanne decided to quit her job as soon as she was showing; the work would be too risky and the hours too strenuous.

She was six months along, but Jeanne began to fear for her baby. There was much unrest and revolt in the street. It looked as if even the national guard couldn't keep the public in check. A state of emergency was declared across the nation, and soon after the capital fell. During that time, Jeanne's town had become riddled with rioters, thieves, and murderers alike. She and her husband packed and fled, but they didn't get far. Gas stations were dangerous places, with lines that stretched twenty cars long, and fights often breaking out, some of them particularly violent. They were soon forced to abandon their car and walk along the road, hoping to flag down someone who would take them to the husband's parents' home. Eventually a vehicle did pull over—but Jeanne's husband recognized them immediately. Before Jeanne could ask why, he was screaming at her to run. And so she ran, but she didn't get far before they started shooting at her. She heard her husband shout and a body fall to the ground, but she dare not look back. When they planted a bullet in her leg, she fell, throwing her arms in front of her just in time to avoid landing on her swollen belly.

A man took her by the hair and dragged her back to their van, right past her husband's bleeding corpse. She screamed, but she was quickly slapped into silence and millions of questions were hurled her way. But she couldn't answer, she wasn't listening; she was shaking her head and crying and the men began to kick her. She shouted at them to stop through her tears, begged them, for her son's sake. But they just kept on and on and on until she passed out from the pain.

The next she woke, she was handcuffed and laying on the ground five feet or so away from the men. They were in some sort of deserted house, but she didn't allow herself to take in the details. She lay there silent, barely breathing, for hours, waiting for the men to fall asleep. When the last one finally fell into slumber, Jeanne got to her feet and fled. Her whole body ached and her head was pounding, but she needed to get out of there. None woke up. Not even one had heard her. But her relief was short-lived; now she was alone, pregnant, and in a place she did not know, though she would soon find out that one of those facts was false. She prayed to feel movements in her womb—a kick, the brushing of a hand, anything—but for weeks she felt nothing. She had to accept that her son was dead inside her, but admitting it didn't make it any less devastating. Ivan knew she had birthed him alone and in pain, but the memory hammered his own mind with such grief that he had to cease his intrusion.

From then on she kept herself alive on only one goal: killing the Organization in every way possible, just like they killed her baby. Even Ivan balked at the rage flowing off of her mind. It was more than obvious that this woman, Jeanne, had a bloody vendetta against the Organization and she would never stop hunting them unless she was killed herself.

Ivan shivered and withdrew from her mind, feeling the icy chill of her enmity slowly disappear.

Jeanne looked impatient. "Are you done now? What the hell did you even do?"

"Da, you can open your eyes."

Jeanne did so and fixed him with a stern stare. "You're not going to tell me why you said for me to do that, are you?"

"No," Ivan admitted. "But I will say that we are in your debt. We are also outrunning the Organization and we will help you do whatever it takes to get rid of them."

"So, are you two lovers?"

The question caught Ludwig off guard after an hour of silence. "Uh, well, um…"

"Si," Feliciano answered groggily for him, squeezing Ludwig's hand which he had been holding for a while. "We are."

Ludwig tried to hide his blush, and the driver said, "Oh, well I don't discriminate. We're all friends here if you were really running away from those Organization men."

"We were," Ludwig replied, feeling a bit exposed without the rest of his group with him. What were they doing anyway? Had something bad happened to them? Sure these people had picked them up and driven them to safety, but that didn't mean they weren't out to get them. He had no proof of these peoples' loyalty—or if they even had any. He would have liked to ask the man questions, but he figured that when they stopped and the whole group was together again, they would have more success in finding out just who these people were.

He looked down at Feliciano. The Italian had been shivering considerably earlier, but the driver had thankfully turned the heat up so that he was more comfortable. And now he was asleep, hunched against Ludwig, head on his shoulder. The German stared at his lover and held him close. Oh, Feli, if you only knew what I would do for you…

Anything.

They eventually came to a stop by a copse of trees; it was the only sign of growth around. The man turned back to look at them. "We're stopping for the day. We've gone through our daily allowance of fuel. We'll start again tomorrow."

Ludwig agreed with that. "We have tents—"

"That's all right," the man said, waving a dismissive hand. "We all sleep in the vehicles anyway. We'll find room."

"Ve," Feliciano mumbled, waking upon feeling the truck come to a stop. "I want to see the others."

"Ja, we had a rough night last. I must check on them."

The man nodded. "Sure. And the name's Gerald."

It was an obvious invitation to introduce himself, but Ludwig couldn't afford to… yet. So he only nodded respectfully and said, "Ja, I will remember. And thank you for saving us."

"No prob. Anything that puts a knot in the Organization's tail."

Gerald unlocked the doors and they opened automatically. A cold rush of air met them, and Feliciano shrunk back.

"Ve, it's cold." He clung to Ludwig.

"It's okay, Feli. It's just snow."

Ludwig was the first one out, closely watching Gerald. But the man remained where he was, looking over what must be a map. It took a moment to convince Feliciano to come out, but he eventually gave in and joined his side.

The other vehicles had stopped and everyone was getting out, none too pleased to be out in the cold so soon. He noticed Ivan chatting idly with a woman and frowned. He walked up to join the rest of his own group and said, "Feliciano, stay here with your brother. I need to go do something, okay?"

Feliciano nodded, sniffling and Lovino gave Ludwig a suspicious look, though he didn't say anything.

Ludwig walked up to Ivan pulling on his sleeve. The taller man stopped talking and turned to him. "Da? Is something wrong?"

The woman smiled. "So this must be Ludwig." She held out her hand.

But Ludwig didn't take it. Instead, he took Ivan's sleeve. "We need to speak alone. Now."

Ivan frowned and followed Ludwig as they went to stand under the trees, well out of earshot of the others.

Ludwig crossed his arms and glared. "What are you doing?"

Ivan blinked innocently. "Talking with the nice woman, what is—"

"How much have you told her?" Ludwig pushed.

Ivan got what he was going at and frowned. "I told her all that was necessary. I—"

"Ivan!" Arthur snapped and was suddenly standing beside them. Both of their gazes fell on him. "Are you an idiot? Why did you say that?"

"What did he say?" Ludwig asked, worry gnawing at him now.

Arthur glared pointedly at the Russian. "Our names. That woman asked about Alfred, too, and you practically gave it away that he's the one the Organization is looking for!"

"You what?" Ludwig said, shocked. He thought Ivan had more sense than that.

Ivan was now very angry. He glared. "I am not an idiot. You are making a big deal over nothing."

Arthur was exasperated. "Our names are nothing? Ivan, you can't just go about giving our identities to every stranger we meet—"

"I looked into her mind," Ivan told him and Arthur seemed to calm a bit. "She suffered much at the hands of the Organization and wants nothing more than to exterminate them."

"Have you checked the others' minds as well?" Ludwig asked.

"Nyet," Ivan said, and he had to admit, he knew that was wrong.

Arthur was furious. "Don't you ever, ever do that without consulting us again, Ivan."

"I do not need to be scolded like a child, Arthur," Ivan flashed back, his voice turning into a growl. "I have interrogated people before. I know what to look for regarding deceit."

"Yes, but does being in a group mean anything to you?" Arthur asked. "As a child you fell into a trap because you believed a stranger's words. Have you learned nothing from that?"

Ivan was enraged now. No one mentioned that about his past. No one. He felt like snatching Arthur up by the collar, but he didn't, though the urge was very hard to resist. He settled for leaning down to the Briton's level and scowling. "Insulting me will do us more harm than good now, Arthur. How dare you say that after what I have been through? Do you think I expected someone to do that to me, huh? Oh no, wait, I forgot, England is perfect. He had the perfect childhood with the perfect life and the perfect empire. And what did poor Russia have? Blood and torture and rape. You should hold your tongue when it comes to matters you haven't even known."

Arthur was a little intimidated, but his worry for Alfred made him hold his ground. "If you learned, then you would know when not to say anything, for Alfred's sake."

Ivan's eyes flashed. "Why should I take any advice from the person who couldn't hold onto him in the first place?"

When Ludwig saw Arthur's face go red and his fists ball up at his sides in anger, he had to say something. They couldn't risk a fight now. They couldn't risk being seen as divided. "You two are both bickering like children. Stop. Do you want to let them see us fighting each other? It doesn't matter what has been said and what has not been said or what has happened in the past, we need to stick together and that means no fighting."

It was obvious that the two men before him would throw punches to defend their opinions, but they eventually backed down at his words.

"I'm… sorry, comrade," Ivan was the first to apologize, throwing back the Briton's accusation of his immaturity by being the better man. "I know you take responsibility for whatever happens to us, and I should have consulted you before saying anything. But my instincts say she's a good person, and I have learned much from my mistakes so I know how to judge. If she is good, then her friends are."

Arthur scoffed and looked away, embarrassed at losing his nerve. "I suppose I'm sorry as well, but I will be participating more in this group from now on. It's obvious that my counsel is needed." And before they could say anymore, he turned and walked off.

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Well... I know I said to expect me to post on Sunday, but SURPRISE BITCHES I'M HERE! The tour wasn't actually all that long and we didn't have to drive as far as we did last time so, yay, new chapter, y'alls! I got home at around two and would have posted it sooner but I got distracted when I went to search the interwebs by the Google doodle Doctor Who game thing that only took me 31 minutes to complete (I ain't a gamer) and by then I forgot what I was searching for (damn you Google and your tempting doodles!) and decided to watch the first and second episodes of Attack on Titan with my sister (I dunno, people, Hetalia might have to share my heart with this one. Two episodes in and I'm already hooked!). Aside from that, we got ourselves some fracturing within the group dynamic! I always love to pit characters against each other, and as much as you know I love to get England into trouble, I was merciful this time and didn't make Russia lay him out. And whaddaya think about my OCs? Like, okay, Jeanne, the only one you've really met. And YES her name does imply what you're all thinking, though since she's 'Murican her name isn't pronounced like its French counterpart. BUT STILL.

Things are getting heavy and now they're all getting more and more stressed. The only thing that can mean is DRAMA. And I got plenty of it! *points to next button*