Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia.
Please, do not ask me what the hell this is. I really don't know myself. It's something I came up with after speculating about the nature of country personifications yet again and went on a tangent.
This short oneshot is written on the premise of the Soviet Union overpowering the other nations and conquering the world, with only America remaining. It begins at the end (oxymoronically stupidly...), after Russia has finished torturing and... "becoming one" with America, because I don't know if I could do justice to a rated M torture scene, and I really didn't want to write a non-con torture lemon.
Russia straightened and stood up on gelatin legs, panting, the ecstasy of release still turbulent in his mind. The broken, bloody man underneath him groaned as he tried to stand up on broken bones and muscles stretched too far, hissing as a sharp spike of pain shot through his wrist and shoulders before slumping back onto the frigid stone floor of the dark room. A full moon shone outside, a brighter, colder white that sent opalescent beams into the room, casting solid shadows. For once, the collapsed man wished for a brighter color, filled with more life. He wished for red.
The country towering over him smirked, uncharacteristically oblivious to his chain of thoughts. "It seems that the mighty have fallen at last. Wouldn't you say so? Of course, I saved you for last. Defeating you is the sweetest victory of all." Russia licked his lips. "You and your dying United States are last, but you are now one with Russia. And as there is no longer an America, you will soon wither away as all the rest did. Here," Russia took a long mirror off a hook and lay it two feet in front of America's face on the floor. "So you may watch yourself wither to nothing," and Russia walked behind him, crouched over him, his reflection smirking at the bruised blond's, "And I may watch you."
He leaned down and whispered fervently into America's ear. "How does it feel, comrade?"
America finally turned his face up form the floor to stare at the mirror. He took a long glance at his bloodied body before staring into the reflection's of Russia's dark glinting violet eyes. Then, he smirked back. "I'd say it feels pretty damn good, comrade."
Russia arched an eyebrow and stared down at America beneath him. What an uncharacteristic response. He would have expected some noble crap about heroes to spill out of his mouth in short, pained gasps, laced together with vehemently hurled insults. Well, if this was his way of making a final stand, Mother Russia would show compassion and let the dying man speak his last words uninterrupted.
"And it feels damn good," America continued upon seeing the raised brow, "Because pretty soon you'll be feeling it too." Now his smirk was a full-blown wicked grin, the sanguine sanity in his blue eyes, still so clean and undiluted as the day of his birth, so piercing, that Russia felt an unexplainable pit of unease settle in his stomach and wish the sanity he saw were otherwise, the mad ravings of a fallen man.
He played off his nervousness easily. "Ah, but I am the winner here, America. And I shall be forever. From this day forth I am immune to defeat."
America looked like he wanted to say something, something he considered obvious, ("Have you ever considered a revolution, Russia?") but decided against it. He settled on continuing with his sadistic reasoning. "Yes. All are one with your sick regime. You are the world."
"And the last time I checked, the World didn't have its own personification."
Russia's heart skips a beat, fear pulling him into a black bottomless pit of no escape before something he hopes, hopes, hopes America hasn't thought of presents itself to him, and something which he hopes, hopes hopes is true, because he fears, fears, fears what America's implying. The unyielding blue orbs that had forced him to submit in the Cuban Missile Crisis gazed at him with double the intensity, double the confidence, and Russia almost panicked because just like then, he could only hope that America wouldn't dare to...to...
"But I personify a nation," Russia counters with all the rush of a man out of his comfort zone. "Even if a nation is the world, that nation still needs to be personified."
America snickers. "Yes, yes, wrap yourself in that warm excuse and cling to it like a child scared of the boogeyman at night. Tell me, Russia, have you thought of a new name for yourself?"
"A new... name?"
You aren't a nation any longer. You are the nation. And because you no longer need a name to distinguish yourself from anyone else, you are no-one. You need no name. The Russian government exists no longer. Just the government."
Russia's heart rate sped as his mind raced down the path America had all too gladly trail-blazed for him. America saw the pale skin grow whiter, the stance falter, the eyes widen and the pupils within them contract. America's smile widened into a feral grin, euphoric eyes that had long lost any remaining sense of self-preservation mimicking Russia's widening for much more sadistic reasons.
"The World Government will take over from here on out. And you, Russia, will no longer be needed. You no longer have a name. You are no longer the Soviet Union. You are no longer Ivan Braginski. You are no-one, because everyone has become one with you. There is no "you" that needs to be distinguished from the rest."
America feels his feet start to fade away, the idea of the country of America becoming lost in oblivion as the United States government surrendered to that of the Soviet Union's and dissolved into just yet another facet of its structure. He had to inflict as much pain on the other country as he could while he still had time, because even though it was barely claiming his ankles now, it would reach his mouth sooner or later, and he wanted to leave behind a Russia as hurt and broken as he was now.
"Look in the mirror, nameless one. Look, and watch as your lifeline crumbles and takes away all the identity you have left. Watch and see how you cannot stop it."
Almost imperceptibly, Russia's gloved hands begin to shake.
"Watch your victory complete itself."
Russia seems to have been reduced to his childlike simplicities, the certainty of a sane man lost to America's words. "At least I won."
Half America's thighs are gone. "But I won too. Alfred and America may have lost everything to win, but goddammit, we won. Because Russia and Ivan didn't win either."
Up to his torso. His vital regions are gone, he muses with dark humor. He wonders if Washington D.C. has surrendered, or burned to the ground.
"You know, even though you're a nameless bastard that I want to kill more than anything, I kind of hope I see you wherever we go when we die. Since I know you'll be right behind. Then I can spend the rest of eternity humiliating you regaling everyone else about how America, stupid, naïve America, defeated you with logic a nation a thousand years old couldn't see. I've made my mistakes, but I've never made one as big as this. Wouldn't England be proud..."
Nonexistence crawls up to his neck. "And all of Mother Russia's children will mock her forever. Have fun in your final moments, you damn communist bastard."
And then the tragic hero's mouth disappeared, followed by his nose and the glasses perched on them with cracks in the lenses, trailed by those hatefully cool blue eyes that destroyed Russia just by staring into his own violets so calmly even at death, and finally locks of golden blond hair that refused to be darkened by time, corruption, hatred, and even red blood.
The United States of America had fallen.
Russia slumped over in the previously occupied space, willing himself not to go into shock, not to listen to America, not to place any faith in the words he hatefully uttered, words always on the brink of bursting into laughter at how the older nation, without glasses to help him see, had been blinder than an idiot at the top of the world who did not look right or left, behind him or even very far ahead.
America was insane. He had to be. He was still the Soviet Union. Still Russia.
His heart skipped three beats as he became aware of the distinct lack of feeling in his boots.
No, no, he was still the Soviet Union! Still Russia! He was still here! Had to be!
Ah, a hateful voiced hissed, but you are the world government now, just as America said, and you no longer need an identity. The world no longer needs you. You did everything you could for your country, did everything to help it expand, and this is your reward. It's time to take out the trash.
Russia sank to the floor as the loss of his identity consumed his legs and mercilessly worked its way up, unfaltering.
America was right. But America was never right! America was an idiot! America always pulled through because of luck and because of military might and because of the help of others, whether in his own government or another's-
Another's government. There was no other's government.
With the loss of his chest, Russia tried to wrap his arms around each other, to protect himself, to reassure himself that everything would be fine. He gasped, hyperventilating, and tears unconsciously made their way down his face. Despite how cruel he could be at times, how cold, how uncaring,
he didn't want to die.
Nobody does, sneered the voice in the back of his head as the nonexistence decided to consume his gloved hands before moving on to his neck. Because inside you're just like everyone else, just a little kid, just another country, and America was right but no he couldn't be! Because he never was right he couldn't be right couldn't be right couldn't, couldn't, couldn't!
America was never right, but he always won.
The country that once was Russia choked as his neck dissipated like wishful illusions.
America was right this time. And in a way, he still won.
Insane tears made their way down cheeks Russia no longer had.
Maybe America had won a Pyrrhic victory, but so had he.
Why do I always feel like I end my oneshots/stories stupidly...?
Yeah. I figured that because Russia is now essentially the world and the world has no personification, he lost his sense of self/ identity and "died" since his government no longer needs him. Yeah.
Anyway, be brutal if you review; I wanted to try to keep them in character but I have no idea how to write Insane!Russia, and I like Actually-Using-His-Brain!America and Mindrapist!America a lot... Also, I this is probably my second "serious" oneshot, seeing as all the rest are humor.
A "Pyrrhic victory" is a victory in which the victory is won at a heavy price (armed units, supplies, positions, strategic advantage, etc), so as to make the victory worthless. It's like the opposite of "losing a battle but winning a war"; you win a battle and lose a war. Frankly, I'd take the war over the battle if I had to choose...
The Cuban Missile Crisis occurred during the Cold War in October 1962, when America and the Soviet Union got in a slight tiff over the U.S.S.R's nuclear weapons program in Cuba and got in the most (in)tense week-long standoff/stare-down of all time in which the world nearly faced nuclear war, until the Soviet Union proposed a compromise to keep the world from being destroyed. So basically, it was the scariest part of the Cold War.
If you care to learn anything more about either of those subjects, go ask the Great Google or something; I'm done with the history lessons.
I did switch between past and present tense, and now have no way to fix it. Whoops.
Technically, Russia is the Soviet Union at this point in time, but come on, who would call anyone, even a country, Soviet Union? "Hey, Soviet Union, what's up?" "Oh, nothing, United States of America. How is the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland today?"
I am Alfredian, I spell things differently than the rest of the world, and I do not give a flying shitbag. (Take that expression from me and I will rudely shove a flying shitbag in your face like the bitch Alfredian I can be at times). Deal with the Alfredtastic Alfredian spelling, even though in most cases it makes no sense whatsoever.