Oh lawd, here comes the MANada.

Warning: Violence, weapons, fight scene, gore, mention of CanUS (incest, if you lean that way), CubaxCanada, and TurCan, possible character death.

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

"The choice, however, is as clear now for nations as it was once for the individual: peace or extinction."

—Lester B. Pearson

Safe

"I…"

Matthew peered up from his sleeping bag, quickly snatching his hand back down from the bandanna tied to his upper arm. Alfred was standing in the doorway, hands awkwardly balled in his pockets. His eyes flickered away and he cleared his throat, continuing, "I never really approved of him, you know."

Matthew blinked, unsure of what Alfred was referring to until he followed his brother's gaze to the black scrap on his arm. "I know."

Alfred walked across the room, standing silently for a moment before finally deciding to sit cross-legged on the floor beside him. He looked into his lap, picked at a scab on his hand. Matthew watched, lying flat on his back, the better to view Alfred's expression beneath his fringe. It was rueful, but Matthew couldn't help but say something.

"It's not your place to cross-examine my lovers for your peace of mind."

"Yeah… I know." Alfred ran a hand through his hair. It was nice to see that even during all this hell, Nantucket had still refused to be tamed. "But then I saw how happy he made you." Matthew startled at the statement. Had it really been so obvious? Alfred caught his look and laughed a bit. "Yeah, you were pretty hooked. I saw the way he held your hand." Again, Matthew stiffened. Alfred's perception had improved significantly since the start of the Uprising. "Like he was afraid of losing the one good thing he had. Just like…" Alfred didn't need to finish his sentence in order for Matthew to fill in the words. Just like me and Ivan. Matthew didn't know if he should feel content or jealous. I lost a lover and a brother, the Canadian thought sullenly. Sadiq had been snatched from him and now Alfred was slowly drifting away from him to Ivan. He had never felt so alone, so determined to prove that being alone wasn't necessarily a bad thing. A motivator, more like. It had always been there for him, only he had yet to embrace its potential. It did, after all, take a special kind of strength to stand alone, even if only internally.

"I didn't like him," Alfred continued. "And I never did. But just the way he made you smile… that was enough for me."

Matthew gave an amused huff. "Look at you, being sensitive. What would Arthur say?"

Alfred scoffed. "He'd probably laugh that snooty laugh of his."

"Wouldn't put it past him." Matthew rolled to his side and sat up, mustering as content a smile as he could. "But I appreciate it."

Alfred nodded, both of their eyes darting away for a long minute, silence yawning between them. Matthew's fingers went back to the bandana.

"I don't want you to get hurt," Alfred said.

"I should hope not," Matthew replied, only then noticing that Alfred was studying his fingers. He pulled his hand away and put it in his lap, as difficult as it was for him to pry himself away from all that he had left of Sadiq. But there was something in Alfred's eyes…

His suspicions were confirmed as Alfred continued, "Please, just… stay safe, okay?"

Stay safe. Right.

Matthew hadn't fully understood then what Alfred had been going on about; indeed, Alfred went on about a lot of things that were irrelevant and Matthew tended to mute most of his ramblings. But this exchange had stuck with him. He had revisited the memory to instill in his mind with absolute permanence what might have been his last private conversation with Alfred. Playing it over and over in his head had provided some clarity.

Alfred had never been good with words, that much was and always would be certain. But there were times when Alfred had honestly been trying to tell Matthew something without finding the right words with which to say it. When they were sleeping together, there hadn't been many 'I love you's other than the typical and playful, 'Love ya, bro,' and Matthew had been just fine with that. What they'd had wasn't written in stone. They were close enough to go beyond brotherly love but far enough apart to abstain from romantic love. They had, after all, agreed upon entering an open relationship. The communication was the same as was everything else—all that had changed was the fact that they'd screwed here and there. Nothing serious. Nonetheless, the experience had given Matthew a new perspective of his brother that made him aware of subtle changes in the man's behavior. The encounter in the bunker had only been one of those times, but it had been a time when Alfred's message was not nearly as light as the ones preceding.

He could see it. Most definitely. How, Matthew hadn't the slightest idea, but he certainly knew that Alfred's perception had improved substantially to prompt such a statement from him. Unlike all those other times, it wasn't simply a "Stay safe," at least not entirely. Matthew recalled the look in Alfred's eyes whenever they had been fixed on the bandanna still wrapped around his arm, had noted the apprehension in them at the sight of it. Now it was as if Alfred was standing right in front of him, shaking his head and saying, "I know what you wanna do, but forget it. Sadiq would have wanted you to live, not get yourself killed because of him."

To which Matthew would have replied, "You almost did the same with Marge, and you would certainly do it for Ivan. Why must it be me who everyone sees as so weak?" He could almost taste the words on his tongue, and he longed to say them, even if only as a whisper, because he was tired of being underestimated. Alfred outshined him, that much was true, and Matthew wasn't entirely sure if he wanted that to change. But now they were on even ground and so were the Organization soldiers who marched so mechanically past him, and he was determined do something. All those times he would waste sitting meekly among everyone else, his voice so small it barely even registered, his opinions so bottled up after years of being forced down in favor of compromise that he felt fit to choke. Well, now there would be no compromise. He was through with being stepped on and just taking it, as if he was too resigned to protest. His fingers shifted back up to the black bandanna on his arm, skimming over the material and imagining Sadiq's flashing eyes underneath, his beaming smile—those stupid Phantom of the Opera quotes he used to recite in a half-assed attempt at romance. It used to be that Matthew would cry every time he thought about the man and all the simple things he had noticed but never appreciated about him. He was far from grieving now. He was seething, and with every brush of that fabric under his fingertips he could feel the vengeful snake coiling in his belly, rearing, ready to crawl up this throat and strike. It had devoured everything but anger and, Matthew, who was so unaccustomed to it, was close to boiling over before the burners were even lit.

I'm doing this for you, he thought, white-knuckled and brooding. Another soldier passed by, and the urge to strangle him was almost suffocating. But he abstained, knowing full well that more would come in time, that he would have his revenge a hundred fold when they lined up to meet him like chickens on a slaughter belt. No matter what anyone says, I'm doing it. You deserve that much. It had to be soon now, any second, and Matthew swore his heart was determined to count each and every one with enough force to break his ribs in two. Everything in him was stiff, wound, not exactly poised but ready. His fingers were making another trip to his upper arm when he heard something hissed into his ear. His mind hadn't registered that it was from his earpiece, that it was Todd's voice saying "Now", but he was moving before he could process. Somewhere at the back of his mind, another voice shouted that he needed to reconnect, he needed to keep his wits about him, but the next second he had his knife out and blood was spattering warm and satisfying onto his face, and it was so easy for him to forget.

He didn't stop to estimate how many of them there were; he didn't even bother to acknowledge their faces. They were inhuman, as far as he was concerned—physically they displayed all of the characteristics, but without the mental capacity for intelligent thought, how much more different were they from animals?

Matthew kept the thought in his head as he pulled his knife out of one soldier, barely releasing his body before jamming his blade beneath another's ribs. If he was as thoughtful as he had been, then he would note that these men were just as much victims as he himself was, that killing them would provide them with some mercy if not done so savagely. Matthew, however, had left that part of him behind for now, and he intended to funnel every ounce of his anger through his weapon, every regret, every memory of then, and the question of why, why, what did I ever do?

He didn't know how many he killed, but judging from the stickiness of his face and hands it must have been a good dozen. It would have been more, he conceded, if he had merely dispatched them like he would game instead of stabbing them until he saw blood dribble from their mouths. But then he saw Sadiq, shot through, terrified, sucked down the river as if he was something to be disposed of, and Matthew's rationality evaporated as quickly as his knife fell.

With every stab, the blade went through easier, his muscles adjusting to the give of flesh. He used to be sickened by human blood, horrified at even the mention of killing. Now, though, it was different. Now he had a reason not to be scared or squeamish, the reason incarnate wrapped around his arm and doused in red just as he himself was, soaking up the retribution Matthew provided it. They hurt you. Another soldier, grabbed by the collar of that stupid turtleneck, gagging as he was pulled back to receive a clean slice across the throat. They shot you. The dead man kicked down, making way for another soldier, Matthew hissing through gritted teeth as the man's blade caught his cheek instead of his neck, growling as he stabbed the soldier between his neck and shoulder. They drowned you. The soldier was still brandishing his knife, staggering as blood welled warm and sticky between his fingers, and, incredulous, Matthew smote him down, driving his blade deep into an ear. No screams, no whimpers, no cries, just a slow, painful, silent death. He killed them like rats, just as they had killed Sadiq like a rat and thrown his waterlogged body to the wolves for a feast. Matthew brought forth an image of Sadiq's body, the curves and dips he had only seen a couple of times but which were permanently imprinted behind his eyes with his death, pictured the yellow fangs tearing everything he loved apart and nothing else seemed to matter but inflicting a similar pain on those who were compatriots to the soulless murderers on the cold shore where it all ended, seeming closer than it did far away.

He was in the middle of carving into a soldier's belly when he was grabbed from behind. For a moment he was utterly petrified, trembling fingers losing their grasp on his knife. It clinked to the floor, and his heart echoed the noise as if it was thunder, but then the memories pulsed through him again and he was digging his heels into the man's shins until he was released. The soldier had just enough time to steady himself and fix him with those hollow eyes before Matthew retrieved his assault rifle and pounded a few more hollows into him.

Matthew's knife was kicked away further into the fray, and he wasn't about to waste his time trying to find it. The blade had become bent with the amount of force he had been using, but he was hardly surprised to find it damaged so. He didn't think on it, how far he had gone, continuing to direct lead into the mass of shifting bodies. He was in a haze, his mind fuzzy and far away, and if it wasn't for experience he might have shot some of his own men as they rushed to create a wall between him and the angry swell of Organization ants. He was constantly having to readjust to avoid hitting them, and he became angrier with every sidestep he was forced to take. He deserved to gun every one of the opposition soldiers down, and his guards were standing in his way even after he had worked so hard to break down the barriers that had been holding him back from doing what he wanted—what he was entitled to do—for centuries. A sudden desire to move his aim to the Resistance fighters corralling him like an animal crossed his mind and made the tips of his fingers tingle, but before it could be determined whether or not his conscience would reemerge and prevent him from doing so, he saw a flicker out of the corner of his eye, knew who it was, kept shooting between his guards as a trickle of sense came back to him.

Matthew heard Kiku's words, noted the veiled admonition in his voice. They shot Sadiq, why can't I shoot them? "I lost my knife," was his simple excuse, impersonal, distant, his finger busy on the trigger. He could feel Kiku watching him, could practically feel his eyes burning into him with the intensity they so often possessed, and Matthew felt offense as acidic as bile snaking up his throat. The man was clearly covered from head to toe in blood—more so than Matthew himself. Matthew didn't deserve such an expression, not when he could never again see Sadiq's expressions.

When Matthew's targets began to retreat, he utterly boiled. How dare they run away when they had pursued his little group, had abused and hurt and killed, and were now meeting their would-be victims on even ground? Chickenshit, Matthew thought, Jeanne barely crossing his mind, because he wasn't chickenshit now, far from it. His muscles bunched, almost prepared to take off after them and douse them in a haze of bullets if not for the fact that he had to reload. He released the magazine and retrieved another from his vest, eyes trained, unblinking, on the shadows fading into the tunnels. He gritted his teeth. "They've run off." With the threat gone, Matthew's wits slowly returned to him, and he finally had the sense to look at Kiku, his essential partner. He pried his fingers off of his rifle and let it slap against his back in its sling, his hands aching from holding his weapons so hard. His skin felt thick and stiff, and he ran the back of his hand along his forehead, smearing it with the blood of the soldiers. He stared and felt Kiku staring as well.

"Are you hurt?"

Matthew glanced up, followed the man's gaze to his hands. "Not mine. Someone else's."

Kiku continued to stare, and the longer he did the more that admonishing glint in his eyes manifested. Matthew could feel his senses starting to take leave and fully intended to counter whatever Kiku was prepared to say about him when he saw Danny come running toward them.

The man appeared out of place in such garb, with his scraggly goatee and thick spectacles. He doubled over, chest heaving, pushing his glasses up his sweaty nose and rasping, "H-hey guys, we… we need to g-get moving."

Matthew's rifle slipped around to his front, as if in response, and he pushed it once again to his back, the burning in his gut returning and his fingers running along the bandanna on his arm with the mention of pursuit."Yeah, we'd better." He tried not to sound too anticipatory, but Kiku's gaze snapped to him anyway as if he was a child about to cross the street without looking both ways. He went on nonetheless. He'd had countries drown him out before. Not this time. "So, I guess we should split up…?" he suggested casually, despite Kiku's knowing look.

"No." As expected. "We need to stay together to protect Dan." Oh, is that the reason?

Kiku's gaze brooked no argument, and as much as Matthew wanted to leave to solve his own ends, his conscience chose that time to worm its way to the forefront of his mind and tell him off. Conflicted, legs itching to run in the other direction and eyes watching Kiku turn and begin to walk away, Matthew finally sighed and decided that he wouldn't have any sort of satisfying retribution if he went off alone and was outnumbered. Matthew followed, and he swallowed his dislike of the older man's confident stride, how he didn't even bother looking back, as if he knew Matthew would follow as he always had, like a puppy. Matthew was starting to heat with anger but was soon to catch himself. Look at me, he thought with exasperation. I'm getting short with Kiku. Carlos would know how to calm him. Sometimes, when Matthew had been intent upon marching down to Alfred's house and giving him a piece of his mind for once, Carlos would catch him and hold him on the couch until Matthew became so exhausted from struggling that he would fall asleep. He could still feel the man's plush stomach cushioning his head, hear his heart beating like it would never beat again. Yet Matthew's eyes were dry and his throat was clear of grief. With every presented memory, the desire for revenge only grew stronger. After all, he was solely responsible for giving them some sort of justice. And he would gladly undertake any method he could to see that they had their due.

His earpiece crackled with static, and he could hear Todd. The man sounded excited, finally in his element, and a weight was lifted off of Matthew's shoulders he hadn't even known was there. The defenses would be one less thing to worry about.

But then the man started dealing out orders—Arthur this and Red that, and soon he, Kiku, Danny, and their combined guard were swerving around bends and racing down yawning passageways in uncharted frenzy while the unchecked defenses roared to life around them. Kiku was fast and always kept well ahead them, Matthew and the others (especially Danny, who was making frequent stops to disable the defenses as requested by Todd and puffing the entire way) struggling to keep up. Danny stopped again and Matthew with him, as much as he wanted to keep going to take out as many Organization soldiers as he could, and then he heard, "Matthew, Kiku, pick up the pace and go left."

The order was so abrupt that Matthew hadn't the time to pick up on the undertone of panic in Todd's voice before he was turning on his heel and racing down the length of the tunnel. His rifle slapped against his back almost in time with his heart, and he saw Kiku who had doubled back, now on the move as well. His eyes were locked straight ahead, so intent was he on catching even a single opposition soldier crossing their path, so much so that he didn't notice another group making a sharp turn around the corner. Matthew skidded to a halt, hands going instinctively for his rifle, but then he noticed the wide, teary eyes, fatigue-flushed cheeks, and frantic expressions of women captives and their children. There was even a baby with them, swaddled against the dank, held tightly against a young girl's chest. All Matthew could do was stare. It was such an anomaly to see something so pure in a place so corrupt. He looked at the baby and the baby looked back, its round eyes observing the blood on his skin and clothes as if in judgment and, somehow, Matthew felt ashamed. The Canadian was entranced to the point that he was deaf to the exchanges between Kiku and some of the women of the group, only coming to when he was nearly thrown flat onto his face as if a giant hand had pushed him over and was holding him down.

Matthew knew there must be screaming, he knew there must be some sort of catastrophe happening and that he was right in the middle of it all, but he couldn't pinpoint where it was coming from and what to avoid, his only guide being the sharp trill stabbing his eardrums and the searing heat at his back. He felt numb to everything, as if his mind had taken flight and left his body to deal with the consequences. Running on adrenaline that burned more than the fire sweeping up to him, Matthew managed to get his hands under him and push himself up, stumbling a bit before running at a slant. He scraped up against a wall, sure that he shrieked in alarm at the burning sting he was met with, deaf as he was, and he finally regained his balance, not bothering with his bearings as he struck out for the end of the tunnel that looked so dark and close and cool. He didn't know who was behind him, who was in front of him, or even where he was, and he didn't care. Away, away! his mind screamed. Away, get away!

And Matthew did get away, though not as far as his brain saw him fit to go. He was forced to stop as a chunk of rock smashed into the floor before him, sending cracks rippling out, some forming ridges beneath his feet and nearly making him topple over. Then Matthew was forced to stop and think about where he was going, about where everyone was and what he was running from. And just as soon as his mind slowed enough to perceive, pain flooded his system, stemming from what felt like his charred back and battered limbs. His face felt foreign, empty of something; at some point as he was fleeing his glasses had flown off, and he wasn't even slightly inclined to turn back to find them.

He was just skirting the rock blocking his path when he felt pebbles and dust rain down on him, making him hack. He peered up and he immediately wished he hadn't; a whole portion of arched concrete ceiling was plummeting down to meet him. The sight was made all the worse with the return of his hearing, so that he could experience the exact moment of his death with shocking clarity in the form of crushing rocks and swallowing darkness.

"Just… stay safe, okay?"

No translations

A Word From the Writer: NO, I'M SORRRRRYYYY! TT^TT. Ugh, I've been so distracted this week, and I just wanted to get this chapter right, so I pushed and I pushed and... yeah, it's Wednesday, isn't it? Fail.

Anyway, sorry for the delay (there may be more in the future, just so you're prepared-it might be that I will just release one chapter Saturday and another Sunday), but the school year is winding down and I'm getting thrown projects left and right and exams and scholarships and research papers and anthologies and college and... I'm just waiting to drop, but at least spring break is around the corner, yay! But I have shit to do over the break, uggghhhh... it's like they conspire and give everything out at the same time. Annoying, really. But at least I'll be staying home for the break, THANK GOD. I don't wanna go ANYWHERE THANK YOU. Just gimme some chocolate and Hetalia smut and I'll be good. Really, all I'll be doing is catching up on fics and writing this one. So, how'd ya like Canada? Kinda dark and moody, but hey you'd be too if you lost two of the sexiest guys EVER. Like, Canada had it NICE.

Yuck, excessive use of caps, but whatever. It's 10:30 at night and I really should be going to bed... but I know I'll just end up staying up till 1 'cause I'm a masochist. But writers are supposed to be tortured... right? XD

The big reveal is next! Until then, consider that password. ;)