Well, now you're fucked.

Warning: Violence, weapons, fight scene, gore, potential character deaths.

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

"You hold in your hands the future of the world."

—Raymond Poincare

Awry

The jockeys brace, thighs stiff, crops at the ready. They await the blast of the starting gun.

Francis would have taken off with them, except he had no steed.

It didn't sound like a gunshot—more like a pop, really. A distant pop that Francis originally thought was just another training exercise being conducted further off. Nothing that concerned him; eyes forward, blank stare, hands clasped behind his back, feet spread just so, another toy soldier among the lifeless, plastic ranks. Behind him loomed the Goliath tank, within which he knew Ivan to be sitting and brooding, just as he himself was. His eyes, in a fit of occasional anxiety, went from Resister to Resister, noting the pattern of infiltration and calculating his escape route when compared to several different scenarios. No one noticed his off-key antics; the rest were too preoccupied indulging in their sheeplike staring, regarding the Unit Commander who stood at the head of the sea of black perfection as if he were a shepherd. Wolves were among their ranks, dressed in their same black wool. They would be ambushed in a heartbeat. Yet all that Francis could think about was that these sheep were not tame. They had horns, really big horns, that could break ribs and gouge bellies just as well as any predator with claws and teeth. The wolves of the Resistance would have to devour them in small, cautious portions.

"Todd." Francis had been preoccupied glancing occasionally to Arthur or Matthew. When he returned his eyes to the scene before him, he found Red's narrowed gaze staring with exasperation back at him. "Todd," she repeated while Francis tried to look apologetic, "is one of the most essential parts of this plan. He's our only clear shot at accessing the database and keeping the majority of our troops alive by disabling the Organization's defenses. You, Francis, will be in charge of getting him where he needs to go," she tapped a place on the map that was boldly circled with arrows leading to and from, "here. Technical Headquarters. From what I've seen it's heavily guarded, and I expect more defenses will surface once the fighting begins to get particularly bloody. After you get him there, you must defend him while he accesses the database." She raised her gaze to Francis, heavy-eyed and grave. "If you fail to deliver Todd to HQ, then the whole operation could go bust."

Francis stared for a moment, stiff with foreboding. He could no longer meet those eyes that demanded so much of him. "I will tr—non, I will get Todd to HQ." His heart pounded. He had decided. He was bound. There was no turning back.

Red's shoulders seemed to slump a bit, as if relieved of a great weight. "Good. Bernard will take his snipers and infiltrate the Washington Monument. When he has a clear shot up in that tower, he will fire on the Unit Commander. After the guy drops, it's time to move."

The pressure was extreme.

There was so much silence that Francis fancied he heard his own heart attempting to dislodge his ribs in its desperate bid for freedom. He swallowed and hoped no one could hear. These men seemed so inhuman and he wouldn't be surprised if they could smell fear. Thoughts began to rush into his head as the empty seconds ticked by… thoughts that he had been trying to quell in order to banish his distracting concern. But how inhuman would he be if he chose to forget how Matthew had been sent with Kiku deep into a tunnel chock full of perils, how Arthur, ever so determined, may soon be standing beneath a loose slab of sewer ceiling without any regard for his own safety? He spotted Todd standing in his blacks a row ahead and to the right. Francis's eyes could have burned a hole in the back of his skull with how closely he was watching him.

Pop. Just that simple little noise and not a muscle so much as twitched. Francis did, but he received no attention for it. With his freshly-cut hair and nervous fiddling, how could he be anything but just another rookie? Francis stiffened himself out again and continued to wait, only realizing that he was supposed to be listening for some sort of signal when the shepherd before the vast crowd of black-woolen sheep stumbled as if slapped, losing his footing and breath as well, collapsing onto the ground. At first no one dared put even a toe out of line, and then some universal realization struck them. Dozens of hands darted down to dozens of holsters.

And that was when the pack commenced their hunt. The sheep were too slow in their responses, too unaware. They had no idea who among them to attack, so conditioned were they to trust black turtle necks and gray spiral insignias. The Resisters downed those closest to them before the opposing troops' fingers could brush their weapons. A colorful array of terrible noises erupted all around him, but Francis, too caught in the surrealism of the situation, made no move to join the Resisters. He was sufficiently defended, he noted. Red had made sure to dictate thoroughly that all nations must be protected at all costs. Men gathered around him in a dilapidated semi-circle with the tank acting as a rear wall, the former firing round after round into the now surging crowd of Organization troops. Revolution was a familiar sight to Francis, but this wasn't revolution. This was evolution at its most raw.

"Ah!"

The shout caught Francis's attention and he didn't have to look around for long before one of the Resisters defending him crumpled to the ground. He just lay there curled up with his limbs all tucked in—like a dying spider. Fluid rattled in his lungs before it was dribbling out of his mouth in a shock of red. Francis tore his eyes from the soldier to see another rushing up to fill his place.

"Sir, where are you going?" a man asked. He was battered and bruised already, and it was hard to tell whether the blood that splotched his front was his or someone else's.

Francis had spun around and started forward, rounding the edge of the tank. His fists were painfully white-knuckled. "It is time to move." I refuse to stand and bear witness to slaughter for the sake of my safety without me lifting a finger to help. But that was too long to say aloud. He spotted an Organization soldier targeting him from afar. He flattened himself against the parched ground and tried not to look too long at the dead and dying faces that surrounded him.

His troops followed dutifully, and Francis loathed every pained noise that escaped them when hit with Organization rounds. He didn't want these men to die for him, not when it was his fault that they had to. And, if Francis were to say that witnessing firsthand the workings of mortality was wondrous, it would be a damnable lie.

He rounded the chained treads of the tank and could finally stand. The Organization troops were still busy going after the Resisters to think of the armored giant as any sort of threat. After all, it wasn't moving, wasn't giving any sign of offense. Worry coursed as adrenaline through his veins when he heard no movement inside. If Ivan had died, what did that mean for him?

Response from the tank was taking too long, and Francis decided that he must take the lead instead of waiting and counting the minutes. He abandoned the tank and hoped he was making the right decision, for a moment believing he heard a sort of bump come from within, but there was Todd, having followed him, standing at the ready. I have to move.

No one was pursuing them—yet. There were enough Resisters still standing to keep the opposition busy, but as soon as a large group of men broke off from the fight attention was redirected to them. The Organization troops moved like one huge animal complete with rounds of hollow-points and bushels of explosives. When it moved too close, a row of Resisters stopped to fire. Francis didn't look back, but he certainly heard the number of men shot through on both sides.

A mile. That was how far he had to run. Compared to their months-long journey by foot, it should have been nothing. But he had to stop or veer off several times to avoid a chest full of lead, and every rocking boom made his legs quake like disturbed gelatin. Then a mile in the midst of gunfire seemed much more difficult than fifty miles through the snow in the middle of nowhere.

Francis kept track of Todd constantly. Whenever a Resister got between him and Francis, the latter sought out the quickest route around in order to get Todd back into his sights. For a man pushing midlife, he seemed to be the fastest out of all of them, eyes pointed forward, completely focused on the scorched and battered building that was the Archives-turned-HQ in the distance. He never faltered or digressed, as if all the brash sounds around him were nothing more than rolling thunder.

Or perhaps that thunder was the sound of tank treads. Francis stole a glance behind him amid raining lead to see that the M1 Abram was finally on the move, trailing a hundred feet behind and positioning to block the hail of bullets. He couldn't be sure if Ivan was guiding it, but part of him was reassured by the fact that the massive gun wasn't targeting anyone.

Francis refused to wait for the tank; he already had the lead, far ahead of the tailing Organization troops now preoccupied with the wall of Ivan's Resisters. Francis took that as his cue to continue on, rushing down the battered streets that resembled more of a moonscape than anything earthly. The buildings around them crouched, watching, like crumbling, blackened beasts threatening to spill Organization troops from their mouths. The thought should have scared Francis, should have made him slow, but all he kept thinking about were the others in the tunnels, relying on him ensure their safety. He kept their profiles in his mind's eye: Kiku, Alfred, Yao, Ludwig, Feliciano, Red, Matthew, Arthur. Although his lungs ached from taking such heavy breaths, he muttered the names, all the while telling his burning muscles that he was almost there, that when they arrived at HQ he could rest.

If only it was that easy.

Francis's premonition erupted into reality in the form of bullets cutting through the air in front of him. It hurt worse to skid to a halt than to run, but the discomfort was a nagging sensation in the back of his mind among the horror spilling out from the buildings, racing down the roads and spaces between like some great horde. He was surrounded by Resisters and while they took time to slow and aim, the opposition paid back their betrayal twofold. Volley after volley of lead whistled through the air, penetrating the bodies of Francis's personal guard. They dropped around him like hunted pigeons ready for collecting, and this time he couldn't look away. Todd was the first to see him reach for his weapon and the man slowed his pace to match Francis's.

"Go ahead!" Francis yelled, indignant. He fired at the oncoming troops, the line of Resisters before him having already been taken out. He downed one, two, three Organization soldiers before more Resisters rushed up to fill the places of the fallen. "Don't stop! Keep going!"

But Todd only slowed further. Francis braced his lungs for yet another shout when he noticed that the Technical Headquarters were surrounded by armed Organization guards having just run out of the Archives, fresh and ready for combat, some of their comrades lying dead at their feet. Alfa, Francis suspected. But where are they? They were supposed to take out everyone around the Archives and in the surrounding buildings. Worry gnawed in the pit of his belly. He watched as the men lowered their semi-automatics, but he could do nothing but run. With Organization men behind him and sweeping up on him from all sides, Francis had no idea what to do. Luckily, his feet made the decision for him, and the next thing he knew he was turning on his heel and running into a building adjacent to the Archives, still spilling dust and debris from its ceiling. But he could hardly care. He rushed through, constantly cutting himself short, back-tracking, until he located stairs and went up. He could finally rest when on the third story, and it was only then that he realized his men—a group of around two dozen including, thankfully, Todd—had followed him.

"At the windows," Francis directed as soon as he'd found his breath again. "Vite!"

No sooner had the men crouched down beneath the frames than Francis finally picked up the hum of jet engines and shortly after a close explosion shook the building.

Francis was blinded by a burst of white, and a blast split his eardrums. Bits of ceiling rained down on him, and a large chunk smashed onto the floor just beside his foot. Heat seared his arms and face for a minute at least, stumbling back, and in half that time he could see again. He blinked, eyes watering, regarding the blown-out windows, glass-littered floor, and men sprawled and groaning beneath them. Some were dead, some were dying, some had shards of glass skewering their faces. Those who were still able to perform rose back into a crouch, peeking out of the windows.

"What was it?" Francis asked, but he knew all too well what it was, was almost certain who it had been meant for.

"A shell," one of the men replied. His voice was gruff and wheezy. He had glass embedded in his throat. "It hit the tank."

Francis swallowed, sweat beading on his forehead. "The condition?"

"Destroyed, sir. Scrap metal now, and it's burning."

Francis wanted to ask if there were any bodies lying around, but the guards at the Archives chose that moment to open fire. One man at a window had the side of his head taken off before the Resisters could respond.

Francis strode over to an occupied window and retrieved his weapon from his side. The soldier already there stared and opened his mouth to protest. But Francis didn't let him speak. He located a guard three stories below and laid him out. He locked onto another target just before being forced to slide back behind the safety of the wall as rounds were directed at him. The soldier beside him took up aim then, and they alternated as they worked to take out the guards.

Ivan is dead, Francis thought, biting his lips, tearing off skin and sucking on the blood. Ivan is dead, Ivan is dead. He kept saying the words over and over again in his head, every repetition making him squeeze the trigger all the harder. If Ivan is dead, I could die too.

"Sir," the soldier said in a tone that suggested he had been addressing Francis for a few minute at least. "Sir, they're clear. You don't need to shoot anymore."

Francis's hands were so stiff on his gun that it was a struggle to lower it, to take his finger off the trigger guard. He nodded. "D'accord, move."

Only when they reached the ground floor did they truly see what damage the shell had done. Part of the ceiling had crumbled into a pile in front of the smashed doors, and they were forced to clamber two-by-two through the gap it provided until they were once again gathered out onto the street.

The whole stretch of avenue from the Department of Commerce to the Archives was scorched, burning, or in ruins. One of the museums had gone lopsided, two of its columns having been blown to bits during the blast, sending one corner of its roof smashing into the stone steps. A radius of roughly one-hundred feet of blackened roadway surrounded the tank, the remnants of which were now unidentifiable, swallowed by dancing yellow flames. Bodies of those that hadn't made it out of range in time littered the street—part of which now resembled a shallow, burned mud hole—all in varying stages of death or burning, but Francis did not have time to pinpoint Ivan, or rather make sure he was not among the dead or injured. A soldier tugged him by the arm, motioning to the Archives and then to the Organization men, most of whom had disappeared just before the explosion, now regrouping just down the avenue.

Francis took off with his troops, now reduced to a fair and battered dozen, and he called for Todd to stop just as he reached the building and appeared as if he would venture inside without guard. Impatient, Todd waited, jumping from foot to foot in an attempt to quell his anxiety as Francis and the Resisters stepped over the bodies of the guards and entered the Archives.

It was eerily silent in the main hall, and Francis had reason to be disconcerting. Not half a minute after their arrival and more guards were streaming out from every available archway and door, taking aim and firing in an unorganized flurry. But Francis knew it was anything but unorganized. He and the Resisters had been expecting them to line up and wait until everyone was ready to shoot. As a result, more of his dozen fell, and the Resisters were down to seven by the time all of the present guards had been killed.

There were more waiting for them down the center hall; noise had been coming from that direction, so they'd followed it. Sure enough, tall doors and a few more guards were what separated them from the database facility. They were fairly easy to kill. They were prepared, but unskilled. Apparently they were the new recruits, not yet willing enough to risk their lives for the Organization, so they had remained behind while the others had attacked and been killed. The Resisters dispatched the rookies without much fuss, though one did rattle out a hearty stream of curses before he was killed. Afterward, Francis stood before the doors, staring upward.

"I have a key," Todd said out of nowhere, and the Frenchman's gaze snapped to him. As promised, the man held up said key and advanced toward the doors to open them.

Francis frowned in suspicion. "Where did you get the key?"

"When the Council found out I was familiar with programming and software, they assigned me to work the database for a while. But we rotate out every month, or once every update, just to make sure no one knows everything about the database. That's information only the Overlord has the right to know."

"And they did not notice a key missing?"

Todd gave a sly smile as he quietly slipped the key into the keyhole and turned it. "I had it molded. This was during the start of the Organization, before they became the FoM, so they didn't suspect as much as they do now. I borrowed it and returned it without any alarm." The lock clicked, and they all took in one collective breath. "No guards should be in here," Todd told them in hushed tones, as if afraid someone who had heard the lock might be listening on the other side. "Only authorized personnel are allowed, unless something has changed."

Let's hope not, Francis mused as the Resisters pushed open the doors.

There they were. Little black rats all in a line, just clicking away. Francis expected an immediate response of violence, if not a simple greeting. But no, they all remained where they were, around thirty of them, seated, eyes trained on flickering monitors, occasionally glancing up at the huge projection that made up the entire upper portion of the wall. Another man sat in a large chair facing the projection, hands neatly folded in his lap, eyes unblinking. He must have been the supervisor.

'Must have been', because the Resisters wasted no time killing them, Todd taking the place of one after pushing his body off the seat. Half of the Resisters began at the end of each row, shooting the men in the back of the head as they went down the line while Todd logged into the system. The programmers did not respond, only gurgled or wheezed or groaned and then died. Their duty was to monitor the database and nothing else. They had served their purpose. It was one of the strangest sights Francis had ever seen, how the men, hearing the gunshots, didn't even flinch, barely moved when they were shot. These weren't men. They were empty shells.

What has the Overlord done to you?

Todd's voice buzzed into existence in Francis's earpiece as well as the earpieces of many others—"I'm in, I repeat, I'm in!"—and he set about warning the others of the defenses he would be unable to decommission in time, fingers working vigorously at the keys, eyes on the model layout of the sewer system on the projection. Francis began to hear and feel the explosions coming from the system below, and he hoped and prayed each one would not be the one that would kill Arthur, or Matthew, or anyone he cared about.

Another blast. Then he heard Matthew's name.

"Where's Matthew? I can't see him on the map."

Francis's mouth fell open and his heart took a one-way trip up to his mouth, but before he could say anything, a Resister that had been posted on watch outside came rushing in. "More troops!" he wheezed, breathless. "Organization!"

That was all they needed to hear before they were surging toward the doors, but they didn't arrive in time to keep the first few men of the opposition from slipping in. The Resister who had been on watch, already panicked and weary from his run, fumbled and was promptly shot. Six left, Francis thought. He killed the Organization soldier who had killed the Resister—a clean shot to the head. Another shot rang out in retaliation, and another Resister dropped. Five. He moved too slow to shoot another and received a shot to the shoulder. He staggered and would have been killed if a Resister hadn't noticed and downed the Organization soldier before he could finish Francis off.

"You okay?" the Resister asked.

Francis nodded, feeling warmth trickle down his arm. "Ouais, I'm fine."

There were only three remaining before Todd could afford to remove himself from his work and toss one of them the key. By then the first wave of Organization soldiers had ebbed off, but Francis could hear more, a lot more, coming. The Resister with the key jammed it into the hole and locked the doors. Mere seconds later and the Organization was banging at them.

Francis's heart was still beating very fast behind his ribs, but he calmed a bit, even when he continued to hear the noises on the other side of the doors. He lowered his weapon, the ache in his hand that came with gripping it so tightly wearing off, when he heard an ear-splitting crack. He whipped around, gun instinctively raised, to see one of the Organization soldiers he had taken for dead, reanimated, holding in his trembling hands a gun of his own. And it was aimed right at Todd's back.

Francis finished the soldier off with a shot to the head and a few more in his back just to confirm that he was gone. He then raced over to check on Todd, and the blood began to rush in his ears again.

Todd was slumped over the keys, hands and fingers splayed, a red bullet hole leading straight into his back. On the projection, explosion icons bloomed.

Translations:

D'accord-Okay

A Word From the Writer: So... yeah, if you're wondering why I'm posting like... hmm, about two hours past my scheduled time it's because I didn't actually start writing these chapters till Thursday (because I've been writing smut, honhonhon). And then it was mostly Friday I was working on it (got this one done that day) and then I had to do this one before the post time on Saturday, but then I found out that I had a bunch of other stuff to do so... yeah, I really need to manage my time better. I keep telling myself that, but I never will, haha.

Okay! So, we have France here actually fighting. Yes, fighting. With a gun and stuff. And with his hair cut short. Wow, just a bunch of anomalies today! Anywho, Team Alfa has apparently run into some trouble, seeing as they aren't where they're supposed to be. And there still may be good possibilities that Russia and Canada are dead. I've already planned who I'm gonna kill off, so... no convincing me! On another note, Todd is dead so pretty much everyone in the tunnels is screwed. Nice one, France (just kidding, you know I love you, mon amant~).

More death and destruction awaits!