Sorry it took so long to write this short chapter. In all honesty, I was not feeling motivated to write although I had the plan all written out. I put it off for so long and went days without even touching the story, which is unusual for me.

Nevertheless, I hope to finish the story soon. I think there will be another chapter plus or minus an epilogue.

"Oh my god," I whispered. I could hardly think of anything else to say. "Oh my god…"

We gawked while Russia continued to watch us with a wide and dull eye. France twitched and grabbed my arm, then yanked me back up the stairs with him. Moments later, he had Britain back on the phone. France stalked in mechanical circles around America's kitchen, leaving me to observe his stressed expression and hear his pointed, desperate words.

"Something's gone wrong! We did everything you said, we waited, and then… Russia's trying to escape but not when anyone's watching. No, he seems to be smart somehow although he won't react to anything we say! We went downstairs and the chains were covered in… He must have been going nuts, but all he did was stare at us, Britain!"

I didn't understand why Britain hadn't said anything yet. He should have interrupted by now, given a solution… My dread only continued to escalate.

"So what do we do now?" France dropped his voice to a wretched whisper. "We don't know what he's thinking… but he wants out. I think he wants to hurt us."

Say something already, Britain!

France went on, "Y-you said he would have his mind back, but after everything…Was it not enough? Maybe you should send us more!"

Then came the pause in his speech. In the few seconds that passed, his eyes grew wider and wider. He halted his pacing and his hand gripped the counter, tightening as he whispered, "What do you mean? No… You don't make mistakes…"

I approached cautiously, inhaling, "What did he do? Wh-wha-"

"Why didn't it?" France quivered. "Did you give him the wrong-"

He paused again for a while.

"C-can we fix this?" He then said.

When I got close enough, the voice leaking through the phone became clear.

"There's nothing that can reverse it…" Britain breathed hoarsely. "But you must do whatever it takes to keep yourselves safe. I'm so sorry… this is all my fault. Russia will do anything in his power to get you now. You have to stay safe! There's… there's no more second chances. I can't save anyone else if they die now."

The exhale that escaped me wavered. I showed the whites of my eyes as I glanced to France, who was already looking back to me. He shook his head, murmured that we would do all that he said, then hung up.

"Canada-"

"I understand. We'll do what we have to."

France sighed, then showed me his gratitude through his eyes. He said, "We only have to do something about America. Can you get him out of the house so that he doesn't hear…?"

"Alright," I murmured.

"Remember, you can't tell-"

I breathed, "I know."

I wondered what America was doing now, oblivious to all that had happened. We had taken advantage of his solo trip to the grocery store, and he should have still been there. When I pushed one of the new doors open, it glided over the floor silently. Peeking into the room, I saw that all was clear. We slipped inside and locked the door as though we had never touched that defining border.

"Ask him to go to a movie," France suggested in a murmur. "He needs to get out anyway."

I sat onto the couch in defeat. He would be driven to go however, if I seemed enthusiastic enough while showing him some movies times on a screen. Then it would be for "my" sake.

But it's a bit of a lie. It's a trick…

All I could do was make him happy. It was a break, that could not be denied. Yet now I was behaving as Britain had before to me. Hiding important details for the greater good…

I'll do it. I won't fail them again.

I prepared myself for America's return. The options and times glowed over my face, and my hands were pale. Still, I turned the computer to him when he entered the room. France was watching, but I managed to whisper, "Let's see something tonight, America. It's been a while."

"What's that?" He came near. "A movie?"

"Yeah… Whatever you want."

"Oh, sure…" he answered softly, leaning in to see what was offered.

"I'll buy your snacks…"

"No, that's fine… I got it," he exhaled absentmindedly, then pointed at the screen. "How about this?"

It would start in an hour. We would leave sooner than then. Without looking at France, I confirmed the plan with my affirmation to my brother.

America's hands had so contentedly taken the crinkling bag of overflowing, golden-specked popcorn. It had been a while since he had been so carefree, so long since he had even tasted this. He hadn't been eating well for so long, but now I was carrying our cold drinks and hearing the rattling of the ice cubes along with my steps. My heart pounded as we headed up the stairs, searching for seats, and the plastic-wrapped 3D glasses felt strange in my hand after America had passed them to me.

It was easier to hide my face in the darkness and behind the glasses. My fingers needed to be restrained, however, from drumming or grasping my clothes. I constantly thought about what France was doing now. Fear started to spread inside me as I remembered how Russia had been. His creepy stare held a dark intelligence within; he was no longer the mindless zombie that both he and America had been before. That I had been.

No one had ever encountered this.

France had been scared on the phone… Despite what he said, Britain has made a mistake. Britain. He told us to keep going, but I was he's been given too much. What if France isn't okay?

I snuck my phone out of my pocket, but the screen was bright. America nudged me and lightly teased, "Turn off your phone, bro!"

I placed the phone at my hip, covering the light the best I could with one hand as I tapped away with my thumb. I ignored America and sent a message to France, although I knew that even if he didn't respond, he could have been fine. He might have been too busy with his gruesome job to consider responding with his soiled fingers.

I hoped, but France never did reply. I was left in utter ignorance as I pressed into my seat and trained my eyes on the screen. The beginning of the movie was filled with screeching cars, yelling, and banging; I sweated and stared at the entrances below, waiting for a corpse to crash in and add to the sounds of chaos. What if Russia had escaped and was on his way now, sprinting to our location?

"Are you okay, Canada?"

America had been staring at me.

"Y-yeah… the movie's just exciting."

America's face wrinkled in skepticism. "I've never seen you react like this before…"

"I was just thinking of Russia."

"Wh- ah..."

America kept looking at me, continuing to pin me down in this discomfort. He eventually said, "Because we left France with him?"

I shrugged, unable to answer.

"Russia isn't that strong yet, right?" he whispered. "And France knows where that gun is."

I nodded slowly.

America sighed, "Do you want to go home?"

I jolted. "Oh- no, no… It's fine. Let's finish watching the movie."

It was difficult for America to get back into the movie, but he seemed to after some more minutes of staring and multiple side glances towards me. The only thing that was different was that he had stopped eating the popcorn. When the villains turned out to be Russian, he later set the entire bag into my lap. I couldn't eat it either. The constant reminder on screen, the word Russia or Russians repeated over and over started a sour churning in my stomach.

There was still no reply from France, and no monster had crashed into the theater room. The credits came, and we sat until the end to catch the final scene. It was incredibly stressful for me to bear the wait, but then we were on route home with me driving at a speed slightly higher than normal.

America set the remains of the popcorn onto my counter. I looked from him in the kitchen, then to France sitting on the couch facing the TV. Trying not to seem too suspicious, I strolled over to France and that pale, ill expression of his while America was out of the room.

"So-"

"It's done," he sighed under his breath.

That was all we could say before America came back.

"Yo France, what's with that face?" he asked while swinging around to France's other side. France froze, but he was given no time to answer for America gasped and grabbed at his collar. "Holy shit, what happened?"

I leaned forward and glimpsed the fresh bandage pasted to the side of France's neck, as exposed further by the pulling of his shirt. France pressed on America's hands, but he had already seen.

"Russia bit you!" he cried.

I stared at France and felt the pulling of my muscles as my eyes expanded. Russia's face had been bandaged. He shouldn't have been able to have bitten him.

"How strong is he?" America demanded. "Why didn't you say anything before? Did he escape? C-Canada- is this why you were acting strange? Did you know? Hey- why didn't anyone tell me if he's dangerous?"

"He didn't escape," France muttered. "He did this when I undid his chains. Russia was angry... I had already cut off his legs, but he did everything he could to stop me from continuing. He wasn't strong enough though."

"Angry?" I whispered. "Did you say-"

"What?" America hollered. He shot us both with an intensely sharp, serious stare. "You did all that without telling me? What gives! So you were in on this too, Canada? Why? What was the point in hiding all this from me? He was dangerous!"

I scrunched up, unable to handle the guilt as he loomed over me, bristling.

"I'm sorry…" I whispered.

France said, "No one wanted you to worry for him. Not after how it had ended for you two."

"That's bullshit! It's more important to know when you guys, living people, are in danger! How I am supposed to protect anyone if I don't know what's going on in my own home? I should have been the one to do it! You don't think I could handle it? I'm not a sensitive coward hiding under a blanket while y'all just risk your own safety! I am this world's hero- I do the fighting and take the risks, so where's the respect? Goddamn it, how could you do this to me and then make me look at this injury? I should have been there!"

His anger slapped me with the realization that we had been treating America too gently. He was right- he was used to bearing responsibility and acting as a powerful protector for others. When push came to shove, he could handle this.

"Sorry…" I repeated. "It's… it was because there was something else that happened. We were trying to cure him a little… so he could see you again. Britain sent something for his brain and eyes… but something went wrong. Russia got smarter and started trying to escape. I took you away to distract you, so that France could chop him up without you knowing…"

America boiled in his rage. "How could you do that without even telling me? Show me him! Russia- right now!"

Not that he needed us to escort him. He snapped toward the doors and threw them both open. After the band, he entered through the wide mouth and marched to the basement door. Becoming a weak shadow of guilt, I tailed him as he thumped down the stairs to behold the lowest level. France had tried to mop the floors, but there was still a thin layer of blood draped over everything. The beam was abandoned now, and the chains were crumpled around it in defeat. In separate corners of the room were two garbage bags, puddles formed underneath them where they had leaked.

One of those bags stirred.

America took in a wavering breath. I sensed tears in it, that he was holding himself back from crying, but he snapped back to us.

"I could have helped you," he pressed, a slow tautness to every word. "Even if it's hard, I would have done it so that you guys would be safe."

The bag was still now.

America abandoned the scene with a grimace and with tears gleaming in the corners of his eyes. I followed him with my own tears fleeing from mine. My brother hated me right now and what I had done. At the top of the stairs, I dove into him but hugged gently. My mind pleaded with him to not be angry, and my tongue freed itself, letting woeful sorries slide off like melted butter.

It was not long before he held me back just as softly and started running a hand down the back of my head. Since I had stopped cutting and gelling my hair, it was softer and longer than before. There was more to work with, and more reason for me to go limp into him and cry more from the pleasant feeling.

"Hey, don't cry," America murmured. "Come on, I hate making you cry… It's okay."

I heard France closing and locking the door. America shambled backwards, keeping me in his hold as we walked back to my home. I paused my crying and dabbed my face with my wrist, then looked up to where we were walking. We sat on the couch, that location haunted by past emotions, and America sighed and hugged me for a while longer.

"Well, it's done," he exhaled. "At least no one was seriously hurt… Is it deep, France? Will it get infected?"

"It is deep, but he isn't toxic. A little infection, but it won't be like Britain's."

"Alright."

"But he didn't bite me," France said. "He used his fingers."

I whispered, "He didn't want your blood?"

"It seemed more like he wanted to hurt me," France admitted. "I had the feeling that he wanted to choke me, so I moved. He grabbed what he could and squeezed and dug deep."

America muttered, "Then he wasn't interested in taking what you have. That's what you're saying, right? When you made him smarter, he's thinking and not acting desperate."

"That's why Britain told us to do this," France replied. "Although weak, we have no experience with a case like Russia's. That makes him more dangerous than you were."

"So then what?" America asked. "We just leave him like that and sit around until Britain shows up?"

"Yes."

"Damn. That could be another week, two, hell…"

"It won't be that long," France said. "Britain knows that we can only keep Russia here for the amount of time he said. If Russia doesn't come home, then there will be an investigation."

"China was already asking me about him, and that was just this morning. Said that Russia wasn't returning his messages. Man, I wanted to make an excuse but I couldn't come up with something. If I said something like he's on a trip with Canada, he would see that Canada was just online. Getting a little stressed when not only him, but other nations are asking about Russia. Everyone knows he's visiting me. Can you imagine how the world would react if they think that I killed Russia? As though it was intentional? Not only am I damn afraid that Russia will attack us, but that someone's going to start a war over this."

"We all know that," France assured him. "Britain will come here-"

"Britain just made things worse," America uttered. "What if he doesn't come in time? What if he can't find what he has to find or he doesn't get the right amount?"

"It was just one mistake," France admitted. "But there are countless things that he has done right! He cured you, didn't he? He would have done it without Russia dying. If Canada had just not… If everyone had let Britain do what he wanted-"

My heart plummeted. I had expected this, but I had been so quick to accept the blanket of comfort that his cheap words had earlier provided for me.

"So it is my fault," I whispered. "Russia's dead because of me… Britain got hurt, you got hurt… because I didn't let Britain do what he wanted."

I shook and slapped my hands to my face. This was not the truth that I wanted, but it was clear that they thought that many things were my fault. They had only been blaming it on America to spare me of this pain.

When my whisper cracked into a sob, France glided to me and sighed, "Canada, don't be so hard on yourself. We know why you did everything you did. I would have done the same thing too."

I dropped my hands and whimpered. America hugged me tight while I listened to France's words.

"No one would tell you the truth about what was going on, just after your brother died. It was hard for you, to be so sad, scared, and confused. And it was hard when you had to act like you were your dead brother and receive no credit for all of your hard work. You were scared and no one, even me, knew that you were the one who deserved our attention. And of course you were upset when we wanted to hurt America. You just found out about your own death, you remembered how it was, and you knew that America could feel pain too. It doesn't matter if it is your fault. So please, Canada…"

"Hey," America nudged me. "No one hates you for what you did. Russia won't be mad at you. No one will be."

I sniffed, "You j-just were…"

"No, I'm sorry. I get it, so I'm not mad at you."

"B-but the war-"

"Forget what I said. Britain will come back in time."

I protested with my cracking voice, "H-how can you just forgive everything?"

France exhaled, "We've all had our part to play. I have my own guilts about the past too, you know. It isn't easy and we can't see the future. Everyone just wants to do their best for everyone else. As the saying goes, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions."

I wiped away the last of my tears. America's voice slowly swung into a more encouraging chime. "Come on, Canada. Let's be a little happier and do something fun. The movie was alright really, but let's do something genuine. Like even Russia, in his right mind, probably didn't like you sad. You played lots of games with him right?"

"Yeah… We used your Xbox…"

"See, you should be allowed to do things like that while I was dead. So do it now, maybe not Xbox, but at least take it easy. It's been months!"

"What can we do then?" I breathed, understanding that the idea was fine but still caught up in our previous conversation.

"Now? Like right now? We could start with a walk. Looks like it started snowing a little."

A walk was not so demanding. It could help take away the images which were taped to my eyes, images of two garbage bags with one that shifted.

The way France's face lit up slightly showed that he liked the tentative idea.

"Okay then." I produced a final, deep sniff. "I'll get ready."

"Oi, Canada," America murmured to me. I rolled over in the bed and shielded my eyes from the white glare of his phone coming from over his shoulder.

"What is it?"

"If I went out with some other guys, would you tag along?"

"You mean drinking?"

"Course."

I placed my palm over my yawning mouth. "Who?"

"The dudes you partied hard with. They want to meet up and do something."

My tired mind was too thick for this and I cursed him for staying up so late then waking me. "Who?" I mumbled.

"Norths and some other small nations trying to get in on this."

"Do you mean the Nordics?"

"Yeah. Then some others. The convo grew a bit from Estonia to Latvia… that's it so far, but they'll probably increase. You in?"

"When? Where?" I cracked my ankles when I stretched.

"Europe I guess. This week?"

"Shouldn't you be working?"

America replied, "Probs fine."

"I think I have to go to Ottawa."

"We could go after."

"So you really want me to come then?"

He answered, "Yeah of course… Why not?"

The corners of my lips twitched upwards. I curl back up into the bed and sighed, "Alright then… thank you."

"I'll add you then." I could hear America smiling too. "Thanks. I'll let you sleep now."

That had been the middle of the week when he had asked me. Since then, no one had seen the bag move again. Also since then, the group had increased to include Lithuania and Poland, and then Belarus. She asked if Russia would come. When America "reported" that it was a bad time for Russia, Finland insisted that they modify the schedule so that he could come. Belarus demanded to Skype with Russia and rang America's phone, insisting that he never responded to her calls anymore. America did not answer it.

Ukraine was added, and soon she had also asked about Russia. Poland showed a vague interest in why Russia never even replied to something he had sent. Desperate, America asked for my help. I sent the first thing that I had ever sent to the group. It was a picture of Russia with his eyes sharp and directed forward in concentration, an Xbox controller in his hands. One of the few pictures that I had taken on a whim and kept saved to myself during the days he was with me.

Thinking it was a picture of the present time, they halted their questions. America had written a simple sentence underneath the picture.

Sorry, too busy fighting a wither with my bro, Canada

Early on the next day, France burst into my bedroom. We had both been sleeping and curled in the pockets of warmth under the blankets. Startled into sitting positions, we received the news that Britain had arrived in India. The excitement carried into all of our conversations that day, words of cheer popping up with clenched fists at random occasions.

America was sharing a clementine with me while France checked on Russia. America was not so gloomy as he did that, but instead underwent a rush of optimism.

"Oh man!" he smiled. "Won't be long now! He'll be on time, we'll get Russia back- he might be able to go drinking with us after all!"

A door slammed behind us. France's footsteps pounded to our location, then he gasped, "We have to buy new chains!"

I yelped, "What, but- didn't you-"

"Russia bit through the bag! I came down and his torso was on the floor, staring… He rolled towards me-" France shivered at the memory. "I hit him with the shovel. I know he doesn't have any limbs, but we can't have him loose like he is now. Not when he is this strong and smart."

"I know where to go." I abandoned the peels and hurried to my wallet. "Someone can come with me to help-"

"I will," America decided.

With that, we departed. Once we had returned, we were led to the basement with strands of the long chain taunt in our hands. Coming down the stairs, we were confronted by a snarl that echoed throughout the room. The precise whereabouts were unknown, but then we heard a tussle as something slid over the stone.

Rolling.

It got quiet for a full, dire moment. America stepped down the stairs ahead of me, stopping near the bottom and peeking around the wall. Immediately he let out a long squeak and hollered, "What t'fuck!"

A black face marked with dangling, moldy bandages leaned over the edge of the stairs, dropping down faster than he could react. There was no skin and on the revealed patch of its lower face, so a jaw of yellow-stained bone was free to snap closed on America's ankle. He screeched in absolute pain and terror, kicking his foot wildly and raising the torso into the air. It did not release; the teeth continued to slide and grind around the wound. Yet the bandage fell free with the jostles, showing the skeletal half of Russia's face, the clear bones polished off by insects, and a whole eye huge and uncovered in the centre.

America fell down the stairs and hopped onto one leg. Frantically screaming, he kicked the corpse against the wall rapidly and powerfully, over and over again with no gain. Among the renewed growls, something in America's leg cracked. America danced about and I fell down, grabbing the sweater of Russia and yanking back. The cloth ripped and America could only keep pounding at the skull. His blows were weak as he swooned from the pain, but France cracked down on Russia's back while I held him out tight.

My hands grasped the edgy ridges on Russia's hips, feeling the skin and muscles giving way underneath the clothes. I lost my hold when France smacked the body down, hitting without hesitation and refreshing the basement with further cracks of bone. The grip of the jaw refused to break, but another hit and America's tearful struggle tore the teeth across his ankle. Deep gauges were born, then the teeth clacked shut with pieces of skin between them. There was blood splattered on the permanently grinning face of the creature as America crashed onto the lowest stairs and writhed in his cries.

"Quickly!" France shouted. Unable to help America now, we rushed the shifting torso to the beam and dragged the chain with us. It rattled and swished like a snake over a rock, then it constricted Russia as his eyes widened all so large. The clearness of them showed how he examined the situation; the creases of his rotten skin and his snarl demonstrated his rage. The heavy lock clicked and fell again him, then all he could do was release his wrathful screeches upon us.

America groaned, spilling his tears as he attempted to clutch his horribly bleeding ankle. I raced to him, heard France murmur something, then glanced back just as he removed a knife on a shelf that I hadn't known was there. The blade jabbed into one of Russia's eyes, then the other, then right into Russia's throat. He cut the meat to ribbons- silencing the disturbing, inhuman shrieks. Russia could stare no more when his eyes had dropped out with the hasty yanks of the knife. He snapped his head to the sides, but he had no sense of where we were now.

The cadaver jolted but could hardly move. The teeth smacked, crunched, but there were no more sounds now. The visual signs of dangerous intelligence were gone with his eyes, and as they were holes as the corpse before him, he could appear like a regular case. A hideous, frightening monster of bone and perforated flesh that spilled obsidian insects.

"I'll carry you, America," I mewled, scooping him up from off the stairs. He instantly accepted, quivering into me and groaning. That ankle was undoubtedly broken.

France threw away the knife and hurried after us. "A horrible trick! Just waiting for someone to come back in order to hurt them. I'm telling you all, that's all he wants!"

"Oh, fuck- ah, ow, ow…" America hissed, squeezing out his tears. "I never saw this coming…"

"Neither did I," France breathed. "I just saw him a minute ago… I never imagined he would think of such a plan like this."

Up on his side, we elevated America's leg onto a stool while he tossed himself about on his couch. We placed a towel under America's foot and clenched another towel around it. He screamed at the pressure; I dropped my end and cried, "We should take him to the hospital!"

"Are you crazy?" America moaned. "How the hell do I explain these teeth marks? Ai, fuck!"

"It's broken-"

"Wrap it tight! Ah god, just stop this bl-bleeding! Motherfuc- ah!"

France squeezed the injury while I came back with bandages. I trembled when he screamed constantly, and France helped me connect the rolls together. He was shaking too, since handling a living and shrieking person induced a different kind of stress as when stitching the dead together. No, unless the memory was too distant, I felt that this was much worse. I hated to see America crying and screaming like this, especially when my touch caused it.

We wiped his hands, but the sticky scarlet was everywhere. Looking at how his foot flopped, I was struck with a fear that it had been disconnected. Had it been? I remembered how it had looked after he had fallen, and it had looked like this.

"America, are you sure?" I whimpered. "America?"

"Ah…" he whined. "God- did it look li-like teeth? Really, tell me-"

"No, not really," France insisted. "Maybe you should."

"F-fuck it," America choked as tears rained from his eyes. "Let's say it was a car."

I sniffed, "Then-"

"Please- t-take me to the h-hospital…" he sobbed. "It's fucked- oh god, he fucked it up bad..."

France hurried to him and dug his hands under the body slumped over the couch. The slightest pressures threw America into a string of yelps, and although France saved him from hobbling, even the dangle of the foot brought him excruciating pain. America accidentally slapped the wound beside France's neck, but when France gasped, his hand slid away while an apology rushed out between his groans.

The towel around his foot dropped, dripping blood over France's shirt and pants. The floor also fell victim to the stains, but it was far too used to those dark drops. I collected the towel and tied it despite America's yell, flinching nonetheless.

"The doors, Canada," France instructed me.

I hopped ahead, first grabbing the keys for the car then clearing the way for them. I was torn back to the memory of Britain's injury, when America had caught Britain's forearm and crushed the bones within it. Although my heart was throbbing and my mind was spiraling into a sweaty panic, but I had to remind myself that it had been worse before. Britain had been bleeding more. We had called an ambulance.

America will be fine. It's only his ankle… He won't die again.

I snatched at the final door, revealing the car to France and clicked frantically to unlock it. My breath huffed out while I realized how frightened I truly was. We hadn't been able to foresee what Russia would do, thus I wondered how much worse it could have been.

I don't want America to die again. No, he can't, he can't…

France shuffled sideways so that America's foot would not strike the doorframe. Clear, it was now my turn to pass through. I moved forward, the thoughts of terror still circling my mind, but found them interrupted by a sound. Halting, cocking my head, I searched for what had seemed like a harsh, peculiar sharpness like the clanging of a pipe. Yet unlike the clashing of metal, there had been something hominal within it.

No one else had seemed to have heard it. France was already ahead, about to struggle with the car door. I needed to help him, but I waited for a moment. The sound did not come again, leaving me to wonder if it was only a memory plaguing me in my time of fear. France had just stabbed Russia.

Surely, surely….

It couldn't have been him. No, of course it wasn't.

But I couldn't help to hold that niggling thought in the back of my mind as I glanced back at the house, as we drove further and further away from the nightmare that still remained barely held back in the basement.