[FIC] Hetalia - "Linguistics Crimes"
America, Germany, and France are brought before a secret tribunal for crimes against language at large. France insists the charges are trumped up. *CRACK*
~~~
America blinked against the brightness of the overhead light, struggling to discern the shapes beyond and testing the handcuffs on his wrists. The good news was that they were distinctly human shaped, which greatly decreased the probability that this was an alien abduction. In addition, the fact that France was to his right -in a similar position of confusion instead of organizing it- decreased the probability that it would end in probing of any kind.
He tried to remember doing anything to piss anybody off lately.
Nearly dizzying himself with possibilities, America went back to experimenting with the metal.
A new fear arose to his left as 200 pounds of angry German struggled to break his own cuffs and launched a constant tirade of irate swearing in the direction of the shadows. The blonde bucked so hard America was afraid the chain would snap and he'd get punched in the nose. He'd been punched by Germany before and promptly decided he didn't want to go there again.
Eventually, Germany gave up. America looked at France for some hint of what was going on.
France only had eyes for the shadow in the center of the collection. "So tell me, Angleterre. Is this the part where you force your prisoners to make out?" Dramatically, he turned to his fellow captives with a look that spoke of XXX thoughts. "I love this part."
"Oh shut up, you fucking degenerate!" The middle blob said very britishly. England. Of course! If France was one of the recipients, England was sure to be behind it. "Why must you treat everything like something out of Internet porn?"
"I can hope, can I not?" The internet age had been good to France.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Germany bellowed, obviously a little flustered. More than anything else, the change in schedule was probably upsetting him. Germany didn't do improv. He treated every unexpected change to his planner like a declaration of war. Being kidnapped and brought before a secret tribunal must not have helped.
"Ouch," deadpanned the shadow at the far end. "You're hurting my ears, bruder."
"Ve~ Germany always hurts my ears..." someone musically retorted. Then, loosing interest, "Hi Germany!"
Germany, stunned into silence, slowly said, "...Gilbert? Italy?" Like America before him, Germany seemed to quickly understand that his life wasn't in jeopardy. His face relaxed, before quickly returning to unrestrained rage. "Do you have any idea how much work I have to do tonight?!"
France perked and leaned over to try and get a better look. "Gilbert! How have you been?"
"Okay! Okay!" England sounded utterly exasperated. As if understanding the pretext of mystery was gone, he turned on the lamp resting in front of him. Consecutive flashes of light illuminated the other nations present.
Gilbert was grinning maliciously from the far end of the line. Next to him, humming quietly, Italy was preoccupied with his doughnut and cup of hot chocolate. England was next, his deepening frown likening him either to a chipmunk or Mr. Yuck (America couldn't decide which). Sitting tall and looking as sickeningly sweet as always, Russia locked eyes with America; the latter suddenly reconsidered the threat level. The last was Canada, who had no doubt been roped into this by Mr. Frowny Face Eyebrows. Every couple of seconds he would nervously tuck his bangs behind his ears and they would fall back immediately.
England cleared his throat. "I'm sure you're wondering why you've all been called here." (I'm sure you're wondering why you were all lured here with promises of hamburgers, women, and wurst before being cuffed and blindfolded by anonymous assailants.) "Frankly, all of us were talking, and we've decided that something needs to be done about the state of language in the world."
"Nothing in that speech explains kidnapping us," America complained.
"Shut up!" England banged a gavel and America flinched at the sound. "You do not have permission to speak! Now, you've all been brought here for various crimes against language at large."
For the first time that night, France looked a little appalled. "Excusez moi! I have one of the most beautiful languages on this ball of dust and rocks."
"England," America began, "for one thing, I'd just like to mention that late night kangaroo-courts were one of the reasons I fought for independence."
England rolled his eyes. "They were not. Stop editing history."
That was right; England had imprisoned people for long periods of time without bringing charges before them. "Tomato freakin' tom-ato" as far as America was concerned.
"Secondly," America continued, undaunted. "I don't know if you've thought this through or not, but I speak the same language you do."
The Brit scoffed so hard that America was afraid he'd hurt himself. "Hardly! You speak a cheap imitation. As if that wasn't bad enough, then you went and brought text lingo to the world! I swear to God, I'll kill you if you send one more email to me in that grammatical massacre...And YOU!" he whirled on France. "You have too many silent letters. I've never seen so many wasted 's's in one sentence in my entire life! Say what you will about Italy, at least his spelling has phonetic logic to it. And bloody hell, Paris is the only city in the world where I only sound like a native if I have a cold while I visit."
France, seemingly to spite England, started taunting with a steady stream of lyrical whispers. America and Germany couldn't understand everything he was saying but guessed it was something of questionable morality when England's blush deepened and he threw the gavel at the blonde. The wooden mallet bounced spectacularly off of France's head and landed somewhere off in the distance. Harsh laughter (courtesy of Gilbert) filled the silence that followed.
"...Is he all right?" Germany asked nervously, almost like he wasn't too eager to know the answer.
"I dunno." America shrugged. "We'll have to ask him when he wakes up."
"He doesn't appear to be breathing."
Eventually managing to cease his hysterical cackling, Gilbert slapped a hand onto the table. He always had to be the center of attention. "France'll be fine. He's just being melodramatic. Or he could be playing possum to protect himself from the wrath of Arthur. Fuck, if he thinks that's something, he should see what Eyebrows can do with a goddamn teaspoon."
England frowned. "Why are you here again?"
"Boredom."
"Oh yes, I forgot. Carry on."
Gilbert straightened the collar of his shirt in a parody of sophistication and grinned wolfishly at his brother. "You're here because apparently the others think it's hard to learn German. Oh yeah, and England said some fancy stuff about how you need a load of phlegm to ask directions and you have two too many genders for your words, or he said something like that. I don't really care. Fuck 'em. You're mostly here because I originally planned to hijack Austria for shits and giggles, but Hungary would have vivisected me on her kitchen table if I tried. Sorry Ludwig, it's like a potlach; I needed to bring somebody and you're just not as scary as she is. Sorry. Nothing personal."
"Well!" Russia announced excitedly, clapping two large hands together. "It's quite clear that all accused are guilty. We should move on to sentencing, da? I came prepared!" He spoke the last words with the energy and joy of a child about to open a present, practically bouncing in his seat with enthusiasm. Reaching into his heavy coat with one gloved hand, he produced a strip of black cloth and gingerly tossed it onto the table. It was followed by a bundle of hemp rope...with a noose knotted at one lonely end. Russia's smile deepened while every face in the room paled. "I only brought enough for one person at a time, so you'll have to share."
America, who was splitting his mental capacity between paralyzing terror and an escape plan, stared desperately at England. "Your honor, I move for a mistrial on the grounds that one of the judges is fucking insane!"
"You've got that right, and he's wearing a sweater-vest," France murmured, dragging himself back to his knees and knitting his forehead together painfully to test the growing bump. "You English dog. I was speaking a beautiful language and singing songs while you were still living in mud huts, waiting for the Normans to bring some civilization to you!"
England leaned dangerously forward in his chair. "Yes..." It sounded more like angry steam hissing out of England's ears than a word. "I heard you the first time and I apologize for this, but no matter how many times you say it does not make it true. That's what they call 'projection' in psychoanalyst circles."
"You'd know all about those, wouldn't you? Having spent what must have been hours in therapy." With what appeared to be a perfectly reasonable expression, he turned to America for confirmation. "Really? That must be it. He's insane if he doesn't love my language...or maybe just in general. But mostly because of my beautiful language."
With a sudden burst of energy that concerned America given England's age, the brit leaped over the table and grabbed Russia's rope in one fluid motion. "GIVE ME THAT!"
Always one with a glorious sense of self-preservation, France turned tail and ran. They were quite a sight: a tall, silky blond running with his hands still cuffed behind his back pursued by a short, raving, ragged looking fellow with a roll of hemp on one shoulder.
Germany's anger had long since died out. With a sense of fatigue that was too exhausted to turn into anger or dread he muttered. "It looks like porn gone bad..."
"France got his wish then." America replied, though wondered what kinds of porn Germany actually watched.
Canada, watching the entire scene silently from the corner, wondered who would protect him. Why did they insist on these practical jokes when it would inevitably escalate into violence?
"Everyone, please calm down and remember why we went about doing this. It was supposed to be a joke? Remember?"
Language was all about communication, and if anybody listened to him there wouldn't have needed to be any hospital-trips that night. Ah well, he supposed medical trips were more fun as group activities anyway.
~~~
America blinked against the brightness of the overhead light, struggling to discern the shapes beyond and testing the handcuffs on his wrists. The good news was that they were distinctly human shaped, which greatly decreased the probability that this was an alien abduction. In addition, the fact that France was to his right -in a similar position of confusion instead of organizing it- decreased the probability that it would end in probing of any kind.
He tried to remember doing anything to piss anybody off lately.
Nearly dizzying himself with possibilities, America went back to experimenting with the metal.
A new fear arose to his left as 200 pounds of angry German struggled to break his own cuffs and launched a constant tirade of irate swearing in the direction of the shadows. The blonde bucked so hard America was afraid the chain would snap and he'd get punched in the nose. He'd been punched by Germany before and promptly decided he didn't want to go there again.
Eventually, Germany gave up. America looked at France for some hint of what was going on.
France only had eyes for the shadow in the center of the collection. "So tell me, Angleterre. Is this the part where you force your prisoners to make out?" Dramatically, he turned to his fellow captives with a look that spoke of XXX thoughts. "I love this part."
"Oh shut up, you fucking degenerate!" The middle blob said very britishly. England. Of course! If France was one of the recipients, England was sure to be behind it. "Why must you treat everything like something out of Internet porn?"
"I can hope, can I not?" The internet age had been good to France.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Germany bellowed, obviously a little flustered. More than anything else, the change in schedule was probably upsetting him. Germany didn't do improv. He treated every unexpected change to his planner like a declaration of war. Being kidnapped and brought before a secret tribunal must not have helped.
"Ouch," deadpanned the shadow at the far end. "You're hurting my ears, bruder."
"Ve~ Germany always hurts my ears..." someone musically retorted. Then, loosing interest, "Hi Germany!"
Germany, stunned into silence, slowly said, "...Gilbert? Italy?" Like America before him, Germany seemed to quickly understand that his life wasn't in jeopardy. His face relaxed, before quickly returning to unrestrained rage. "Do you have any idea how much work I have to do tonight?!"
France perked and leaned over to try and get a better look. "Gilbert! How have you been?"
"Okay! Okay!" England sounded utterly exasperated. As if understanding the pretext of mystery was gone, he turned on the lamp resting in front of him. Consecutive flashes of light illuminated the other nations present.
Gilbert was grinning maliciously from the far end of the line. Next to him, humming quietly, Italy was preoccupied with his doughnut and cup of hot chocolate. England was next, his deepening frown likening him either to a chipmunk or Mr. Yuck (America couldn't decide which). Sitting tall and looking as sickeningly sweet as always, Russia locked eyes with America; the latter suddenly reconsidered the threat level. The last was Canada, who had no doubt been roped into this by Mr. Frowny Face Eyebrows. Every couple of seconds he would nervously tuck his bangs behind his ears and they would fall back immediately.
England cleared his throat. "I'm sure you're wondering why you've all been called here." (I'm sure you're wondering why you were all lured here with promises of hamburgers, women, and wurst before being cuffed and blindfolded by anonymous assailants.) "Frankly, all of us were talking, and we've decided that something needs to be done about the state of language in the world."
"Nothing in that speech explains kidnapping us," America complained.
"Shut up!" England banged a gavel and America flinched at the sound. "You do not have permission to speak! Now, you've all been brought here for various crimes against language at large."
For the first time that night, France looked a little appalled. "Excusez moi! I have one of the most beautiful languages on this ball of dust and rocks."
"England," America began, "for one thing, I'd just like to mention that late night kangaroo-courts were one of the reasons I fought for independence."
England rolled his eyes. "They were not. Stop editing history."
That was right; England had imprisoned people for long periods of time without bringing charges before them. "Tomato freakin' tom-ato" as far as America was concerned.
"Secondly," America continued, undaunted. "I don't know if you've thought this through or not, but I speak the same language you do."
The Brit scoffed so hard that America was afraid he'd hurt himself. "Hardly! You speak a cheap imitation. As if that wasn't bad enough, then you went and brought text lingo to the world! I swear to God, I'll kill you if you send one more email to me in that grammatical massacre...And YOU!" he whirled on France. "You have too many silent letters. I've never seen so many wasted 's's in one sentence in my entire life! Say what you will about Italy, at least his spelling has phonetic logic to it. And bloody hell, Paris is the only city in the world where I only sound like a native if I have a cold while I visit."
France, seemingly to spite England, started taunting with a steady stream of lyrical whispers. America and Germany couldn't understand everything he was saying but guessed it was something of questionable morality when England's blush deepened and he threw the gavel at the blonde. The wooden mallet bounced spectacularly off of France's head and landed somewhere off in the distance. Harsh laughter (courtesy of Gilbert) filled the silence that followed.
"...Is he all right?" Germany asked nervously, almost like he wasn't too eager to know the answer.
"I dunno." America shrugged. "We'll have to ask him when he wakes up."
"He doesn't appear to be breathing."
Eventually managing to cease his hysterical cackling, Gilbert slapped a hand onto the table. He always had to be the center of attention. "France'll be fine. He's just being melodramatic. Or he could be playing possum to protect himself from the wrath of Arthur. Fuck, if he thinks that's something, he should see what Eyebrows can do with a goddamn teaspoon."
England frowned. "Why are you here again?"
"Boredom."
"Oh yes, I forgot. Carry on."
Gilbert straightened the collar of his shirt in a parody of sophistication and grinned wolfishly at his brother. "You're here because apparently the others think it's hard to learn German. Oh yeah, and England said some fancy stuff about how you need a load of phlegm to ask directions and you have two too many genders for your words, or he said something like that. I don't really care. Fuck 'em. You're mostly here because I originally planned to hijack Austria for shits and giggles, but Hungary would have vivisected me on her kitchen table if I tried. Sorry Ludwig, it's like a potlach; I needed to bring somebody and you're just not as scary as she is. Sorry. Nothing personal."
"Well!" Russia announced excitedly, clapping two large hands together. "It's quite clear that all accused are guilty. We should move on to sentencing, da? I came prepared!" He spoke the last words with the energy and joy of a child about to open a present, practically bouncing in his seat with enthusiasm. Reaching into his heavy coat with one gloved hand, he produced a strip of black cloth and gingerly tossed it onto the table. It was followed by a bundle of hemp rope...with a noose knotted at one lonely end. Russia's smile deepened while every face in the room paled. "I only brought enough for one person at a time, so you'll have to share."
America, who was splitting his mental capacity between paralyzing terror and an escape plan, stared desperately at England. "Your honor, I move for a mistrial on the grounds that one of the judges is fucking insane!"
"You've got that right, and he's wearing a sweater-vest," France murmured, dragging himself back to his knees and knitting his forehead together painfully to test the growing bump. "You English dog. I was speaking a beautiful language and singing songs while you were still living in mud huts, waiting for the Normans to bring some civilization to you!"
England leaned dangerously forward in his chair. "Yes..." It sounded more like angry steam hissing out of England's ears than a word. "I heard you the first time and I apologize for this, but no matter how many times you say it does not make it true. That's what they call 'projection' in psychoanalyst circles."
"You'd know all about those, wouldn't you? Having spent what must have been hours in therapy." With what appeared to be a perfectly reasonable expression, he turned to America for confirmation. "Really? That must be it. He's insane if he doesn't love my language...or maybe just in general. But mostly because of my beautiful language."
With a sudden burst of energy that concerned America given England's age, the brit leaped over the table and grabbed Russia's rope in one fluid motion. "GIVE ME THAT!"
Always one with a glorious sense of self-preservation, France turned tail and ran. They were quite a sight: a tall, silky blond running with his hands still cuffed behind his back pursued by a short, raving, ragged looking fellow with a roll of hemp on one shoulder.
Germany's anger had long since died out. With a sense of fatigue that was too exhausted to turn into anger or dread he muttered. "It looks like porn gone bad..."
"France got his wish then." America replied, though wondered what kinds of porn Germany actually watched.
Canada, watching the entire scene silently from the corner, wondered who would protect him. Why did they insist on these practical jokes when it would inevitably escalate into violence?
"Everyone, please calm down and remember why we went about doing this. It was supposed to be a joke? Remember?"
Language was all about communication, and if anybody listened to him there wouldn't have needed to be any hospital-trips that night. Ah well, he supposed medical trips were more fun as group activities anyway.