My Sickness, It Provoked Nuclear Holocaust!
Title: Seven to Doomsday
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairing(s): Unrequited Belarus/Russia, Spain/Romano
Rating: T for violence.
Word Count: 1,469
The whole fucking world was being blown to bits around him. He could hear the screams out in the street, terrified or just mad. Screaming because they could, because everything was gone and nobody cared and children cried and mothers didn’t shush them anymore and glass was broken. The streets were painted orange from the sky with blushes of crimson. Arthur thought, in his own poetic way, that it was beautiful. His people had lost control, left their country, the one that had withstood godlessness and war and Ludwig, for God’s sake, so many times just for them. But they were going to give up, without a fight, without a plan. His people, the proud, the noble English were gone, and here he was, sitting in his home, drinking tea while a blazing inferno of chaotic demise bloomed all around him, like a terrifying and awe-inspiring flower. Arthur only wished they hadn’t all left him; tea isn’t as good alone.
He was caught in the fray, curled in a ball, glasses broken and thrown across the floor. Why? He wasn’t like England or France, he didn’t live between them. He was promised his safety; nobody would bother or care about him. Why this? Why was his mouth filled with blood, spilling carelessly out of his mouth as he tried to word his silent screams? It was a pity, he thought, that he could not go out in a blaze of glory like his brother surely would; shelters and counter-fire and giant explosions could turn that entire country into a suicidal bomber hurled at their opponents. His leg spasmed for a final time on the ground, and he choked on a fatal sob as he coughed on his already regurgitated blood and spit… clutched onto a white mess of fur that was stained grey and red from charcoal and his friend’s death, Canada dies like a child, curled with his bear in a fetal position. And the world did not stop for him, not even for his death.
It smelled so familiar, he didn’t realize there was anything wrong until the shouts of his civilians. The death stank around him, burned and singed flesh with that slightly bloody smell. Toris was not new to blood, or burns, or fear. He felt all of them now, again, and his mind strayed to Ivan. Yes, Ivan had something to do with this, he had to. Toris did not know much of pain beyond Ivan, so who else would it be? Who else would hurt him when he had done nothing wrong? He lay down on his freshly-cleaned bed gently, trying not to rustle what he assumed was a broken ankle. How many times had it been snapped like a twig by the Great Russia? Too many for Toris to count on one hand, so it did not bother him. Was this the end? Who would know until it was over? Lithuania fell asleep crying, and only woke up to feel the pain of nuclear death. So terrifying and violent, it could hardly be called sleep, and Toris thought of Ivan as he died.
The air was hot and hard to swallow. It was not humid, it was dry and full of terror. Could this be the final war? He had been expecting it, but not this soon. Not now, not now not now. This was the only thing going through his mind as he scrambled to gather food and water for the shelter. He could not remember where he put anything. IN fact, he was still groggy from being awoken so suddenly from sleep. Where was he? He needed to come with him, come and be safe and they could live together underground until the world rebuilt itself or some other childish fantasy. He found the shelter, built twenty years ago by hand, easily enough. But was Romano still asleep? Not now, again he thought, not now not now never now not now never, he kept chanting in his head. He hoped it was a dream, something like this only happened in sleep, right? The world had been more and more agitated with eachother of late, and he had decided to chalk it up to America’s economy. But if the sharp pain in his side, making it hard to breathe or walk or talk was anything to go by, someone was fed up. Spain fell to his knees, outside his home, breathing in toxic air, spending his last, pained poisoned breath to call out, in what he vainly hoped was more than a whisper, “Romano”.
In Europe, it hit them the worst. She felt her blood freeze when she heard it. She knew that sound, she knew it all too well. She wanted to pretend it was the TV, but she didn’t have the TV on, and the radio was off too. She would not panic, it was not her place anymore. Her eyes lit up as the yellow flew across her vision, encompassing everything and all her people and all her homes and things and animals and just everything. Lights danced across her countryside, flames flickering on the crops and on the roofs like ballerinas or ice skaters. They would all die, all of them, every single one. Did she care? Of course. Belarus, the youngest sister, giggled despite her chest pain, as her dress burned and her legs singed and her arms oozed blood from their open wounds. She would be one with brother. That was all she had wanted, all she’d wanted in the world. Her final wish was coming true, she could die happily. She took her knife off the bedside table. She could survive, her people could survive so easily. But that was not what brother wanted, obviously, so she kissed the knife once before plunging it into her chest.
Beautiful, beautiful fire. It did not stop, it did not falter for the humans in its way. Ivan loved it, loved every second of it. He inhaled deeply, taking in the vile, rotten smell of residue and explosion. Exhaling, he retched and coughed for what seemed like forever, feeling bile in the back of his throat. It tasted a little like vodka, he noted delightfully. Light giggles from the tickling sensation of mass murder became laughs as he looked out his huge, archaic window, reconstructed after the fall of his Union, to see his people, encased in fire and struggling to live. They cried for him, for their Motherland. Why wasn’t he doing something to save them? They squealed, like filthy pigs and scoundrels, rolling in the soot and charred ground. It made Ivan smile. But, as he vomited blood all over his favourite coat, he wondered who fired the first missile? It was not him, although he reached in his pocket to counter-fire on America. What would it hurt, besides a few more million people? Trivial matter, but everyone needed to die now that Russia was going. They would go down together, in an orange and yellow mass of hatred. Violet eyes glittered with amusement as he doubled over and fell to the stained ground, laughing his way into oblivion. What better way was there to end it all?
If they couldn’t get along, they shouldn’t be allowed to live on the same planet. He had decided this late last night, and he knew that innocents would die. He would not be blamed. Everyone was bound to blame Ivan, and it’s not as if they could hold an investigation once it was through. He had fired to Moscow, London, New York, Tokyo and so many other places in-between. This would teach them, next time when humanity rebuilt itself, and rebuilt its borders, they would realize not to fight, not to annex and destroy. If they were smart, they would stop development of weapons so this didn’t happen again. But they were just as human as their people, and would make the same mistakes over and over and over. They would not have wars, and would be nice. And for once, there would no longer be an Ivan. He trembled at the thought, tears springing to fearful, sharp eyes. Latvia fidgeted in his seat, waiting for the end. Waiting for someone to fire at Russia, and he could catch the aftermath. The shelter was right there, right at his feet. He could feel it. But what kind of parent would not die with what they had created?
This has been X-posted pretty much everywhere.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairing(s): Unrequited Belarus/Russia, Spain/Romano
Rating: T for violence.
Word Count: 1,469
The whole fucking world was being blown to bits around him. He could hear the screams out in the street, terrified or just mad. Screaming because they could, because everything was gone and nobody cared and children cried and mothers didn’t shush them anymore and glass was broken. The streets were painted orange from the sky with blushes of crimson. Arthur thought, in his own poetic way, that it was beautiful. His people had lost control, left their country, the one that had withstood godlessness and war and Ludwig, for God’s sake, so many times just for them. But they were going to give up, without a fight, without a plan. His people, the proud, the noble English were gone, and here he was, sitting in his home, drinking tea while a blazing inferno of chaotic demise bloomed all around him, like a terrifying and awe-inspiring flower. Arthur only wished they hadn’t all left him; tea isn’t as good alone.
He was caught in the fray, curled in a ball, glasses broken and thrown across the floor. Why? He wasn’t like England or France, he didn’t live between them. He was promised his safety; nobody would bother or care about him. Why this? Why was his mouth filled with blood, spilling carelessly out of his mouth as he tried to word his silent screams? It was a pity, he thought, that he could not go out in a blaze of glory like his brother surely would; shelters and counter-fire and giant explosions could turn that entire country into a suicidal bomber hurled at their opponents. His leg spasmed for a final time on the ground, and he choked on a fatal sob as he coughed on his already regurgitated blood and spit… clutched onto a white mess of fur that was stained grey and red from charcoal and his friend’s death, Canada dies like a child, curled with his bear in a fetal position. And the world did not stop for him, not even for his death.
It smelled so familiar, he didn’t realize there was anything wrong until the shouts of his civilians. The death stank around him, burned and singed flesh with that slightly bloody smell. Toris was not new to blood, or burns, or fear. He felt all of them now, again, and his mind strayed to Ivan. Yes, Ivan had something to do with this, he had to. Toris did not know much of pain beyond Ivan, so who else would it be? Who else would hurt him when he had done nothing wrong? He lay down on his freshly-cleaned bed gently, trying not to rustle what he assumed was a broken ankle. How many times had it been snapped like a twig by the Great Russia? Too many for Toris to count on one hand, so it did not bother him. Was this the end? Who would know until it was over? Lithuania fell asleep crying, and only woke up to feel the pain of nuclear death. So terrifying and violent, it could hardly be called sleep, and Toris thought of Ivan as he died.
The air was hot and hard to swallow. It was not humid, it was dry and full of terror. Could this be the final war? He had been expecting it, but not this soon. Not now, not now not now. This was the only thing going through his mind as he scrambled to gather food and water for the shelter. He could not remember where he put anything. IN fact, he was still groggy from being awoken so suddenly from sleep. Where was he? He needed to come with him, come and be safe and they could live together underground until the world rebuilt itself or some other childish fantasy. He found the shelter, built twenty years ago by hand, easily enough. But was Romano still asleep? Not now, again he thought, not now not now never now not now never, he kept chanting in his head. He hoped it was a dream, something like this only happened in sleep, right? The world had been more and more agitated with eachother of late, and he had decided to chalk it up to America’s economy. But if the sharp pain in his side, making it hard to breathe or walk or talk was anything to go by, someone was fed up. Spain fell to his knees, outside his home, breathing in toxic air, spending his last, pained poisoned breath to call out, in what he vainly hoped was more than a whisper, “Romano”.
In Europe, it hit them the worst. She felt her blood freeze when she heard it. She knew that sound, she knew it all too well. She wanted to pretend it was the TV, but she didn’t have the TV on, and the radio was off too. She would not panic, it was not her place anymore. Her eyes lit up as the yellow flew across her vision, encompassing everything and all her people and all her homes and things and animals and just everything. Lights danced across her countryside, flames flickering on the crops and on the roofs like ballerinas or ice skaters. They would all die, all of them, every single one. Did she care? Of course. Belarus, the youngest sister, giggled despite her chest pain, as her dress burned and her legs singed and her arms oozed blood from their open wounds. She would be one with brother. That was all she had wanted, all she’d wanted in the world. Her final wish was coming true, she could die happily. She took her knife off the bedside table. She could survive, her people could survive so easily. But that was not what brother wanted, obviously, so she kissed the knife once before plunging it into her chest.
Beautiful, beautiful fire. It did not stop, it did not falter for the humans in its way. Ivan loved it, loved every second of it. He inhaled deeply, taking in the vile, rotten smell of residue and explosion. Exhaling, he retched and coughed for what seemed like forever, feeling bile in the back of his throat. It tasted a little like vodka, he noted delightfully. Light giggles from the tickling sensation of mass murder became laughs as he looked out his huge, archaic window, reconstructed after the fall of his Union, to see his people, encased in fire and struggling to live. They cried for him, for their Motherland. Why wasn’t he doing something to save them? They squealed, like filthy pigs and scoundrels, rolling in the soot and charred ground. It made Ivan smile. But, as he vomited blood all over his favourite coat, he wondered who fired the first missile? It was not him, although he reached in his pocket to counter-fire on America. What would it hurt, besides a few more million people? Trivial matter, but everyone needed to die now that Russia was going. They would go down together, in an orange and yellow mass of hatred. Violet eyes glittered with amusement as he doubled over and fell to the stained ground, laughing his way into oblivion. What better way was there to end it all?
If they couldn’t get along, they shouldn’t be allowed to live on the same planet. He had decided this late last night, and he knew that innocents would die. He would not be blamed. Everyone was bound to blame Ivan, and it’s not as if they could hold an investigation once it was through. He had fired to Moscow, London, New York, Tokyo and so many other places in-between. This would teach them, next time when humanity rebuilt itself, and rebuilt its borders, they would realize not to fight, not to annex and destroy. If they were smart, they would stop development of weapons so this didn’t happen again. But they were just as human as their people, and would make the same mistakes over and over and over. They would not have wars, and would be nice. And for once, there would no longer be an Ivan. He trembled at the thought, tears springing to fearful, sharp eyes. Latvia fidgeted in his seat, waiting for the end. Waiting for someone to fire at Russia, and he could catch the aftermath. The shelter was right there, right at his feet. He could feel it. But what kind of parent would not die with what they had created?
This has been X-posted pretty much everywhere.