North American Hurricane (Hetalia)
Author: Ashynarr
Summary: In the same vein as Bunnies For Your Amusement, I now bring you my collection of oneshots and short stories featuring the North American twins, America and Canada! Now including non-LJ drabbles.
Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine.
Warning: Random Shit, Bros Being Bros, Violence – like, not super gory but still
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There was a moment of stunned silence from the assembled group as the gunshot's echo faded. Canada's body slumped to the floor, not even having a chance to react before the bullet had gone right through his head.
The man holding the gun snorted, giving the body a lazy kick, confident in his men's ability to keep the other freaks under control while he did his God-sworn duty to the Earth. "For a bunch of so-called immortals, you sure don't seem all that tough. Just goes to show you're all hype and no bite, hmm?"
He glanced up, momentarily confused as to why all of the guns which had been pointed rather evenly among the so called 'representatives' were now focused on one point, and turned to follow their gazes. And immediately started to regret it.
Because the one called 'America', who by all records and accounts, both written and word of mouth, was all but incapable of any emotion other than blissful ignorance, drunk on life while the people suffered under his thumb... wasn't smiling at all, instead staring him down with an unnerving blankness that even had the other representatives edging away as much as they could. For a moment, before he pushed it down, he felt very, very small, a mere child trying to challenge a god.
Superstition, he told himself, and made to turn away (and try to get that gaze out of his field of view and his mind.)
That was all the warning he got before everything went horribly, horribly wrong.
One second the so called superpower was secured, the next he'd grabbed his chair, brought it around on two of his men and smashed it and them, and had tossed aside the ruined pieces to start in on the panicking troops with merely his fists. The bodies he left in his wake were merely broken if they were lucky, and if they weren't...
The leader didn't even need to shout an order for them to start firing, but either their aim was worse than it appeared due to the speed he was moving at, or he was completely ignoring the wounds he was getting.
He didn't know which was more terrifying.
Before he could completely compute the carnage wrought on his men - specially trained just for this day, all cut down like grass in mere moments! - the freak was upon him, eyes cold and cruel and ancient, and even as he brought his gun up he knew it'd be useless, because what mere mortal weapon could strike down a demon?
(It didn't even notice the blood pouring from its body from the bullet wounds - even the one close to where its heart should have been didn't seem to phase it!)
The demon snatched the gun away, crushing the metal to bits before tossing it to the side, grabbing him by the throat and throwing him into the wall. He screamed as his shoulder was sharply dislocated from impact, grabbing onto it even as the demon stormed up and grabbed him by the throat again, pressing him against the wall and slowly increasing the pressure, looking almost gleeful now.
He wondered, between the increasingly patchy breaths and dark blotches in his eyes, whether he would break before or after the wall, and whether either would end this torment.
"Alfred!" One of the others shouted, and everything stopped, the demon halting its relentless assault as well.
The gaze drifted away for a second, calculating, before returning back to him. In them he could see his judgement being passed, and knew he'd soon taste death-
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Alfred let the terrorist drop to the floor after knocking him out, fingers still twitching even as the UN police stormed in to apprehend those who'd managed to be lucky enough to avoid his short lived path of carnage. Fuck, he'd really let himself lose control, something he hadn't done in decades, and even then tempered by years between the attack and his revenge strike.
Arthur walked over, resting a hand on his charge's shoulder as the American watched the leader of the group get picked up and hauled away, barely grimacing at the body bags being pulled out for the remains of the others. "You know why I had to stop you."
"Yeah, I do," The superpower closed his eyes, exhaling again and letting his shoulders slump. "We need to know where the leaks are and we can't if he's dead."
The English Nation pat him sympathetically. "Matthew will be fine after some rest, though I imagine he'd appreciate a friendly face nearby once he wakes up."
"I'll take him back to our room," Alfred turned to look to his brother, who was carefully being cleaned up by a few of the other Nations before the blood set into his suit and hair. "I'll get him some takeout or something - not feeling super hungry myself."
"At least eat tomorrow," Arthur didn't argue despite his instincts, knowing that he would ignore it anyways and that Matthew would push the point once he was up and somewhat about again. "And make sure your brother does too. And-" He sighed, giving in to temptation. "Call me sometime, alright? Just to reassure me you aren't going to go do something stupid before you've had a chance to calm down."
Alfred, too tired to argue, nodded. "Alright," He whispered quietly. "Alright."
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AN: ...yeah, I have to admit imagining an Alfred who is well and truly pissed off is a scary, scary thing I would never ever dare face or even attempt to invoke, because seriously that guy could probably take out a whole army on his own once he gets going. The aftereffects on him aren't exactly pleasant either, which makes it all even more terrible to contemplate.