A/N: Alright, here's my little Christmas gift to you guys! Sorry it's a little late, stuff got in the way. This was inspired by the Christmas special of The Office. I would've called it a parody, but I personally think I strayed far enough from the episode. I'll still give credit anyway.
Disclaimer: Thanks to the creator of Hetalia for letting me borrow the characters, to whoever created The Office for inspiration, and to my friend Nora for reccomending The Office in the first place.
The COLD War
It was December 24th, and all the nations of the world had gathered at the usual conference table. Germany was, in fact, holding a "crisis" World Meeting over Christmas weekend. Yes, everyone hated his guts at the moment. Except for Italy, who was only mildly upset with him. The table was packed with restless, impatient, and mournful countries, even the Buddhist and Muslim nations that didn't celebrate Christmas were a little disappointed.
Close to the front of the table sat America, who had just finished "getting everyone warmed up" for the person who was actually in charge (read: Germany). England sat to his left. They appeared to be ignoring each other, but an ever-curious Hungary had hidden herself under the table to watch for any hand-holding, crotch-grabbing, or games of footsy. Across from the western nation, Russia was making America's poor innocent twin brother into a chair cushion. Not the the east-European/north-Asian noticed. Russia was sandwiched between Greece on his left and France on his right.
None of them were actually paying attention to the meeting. America had a Nintendo DSi running on silent, Greece was out cold, Russia was doodling a picture of a man roasting on a spit and grinning... even England had a copy of Hamlet open on his lap while "taking notes." France, meanwhile, was casually eating a surprisingly colorful chicken-and-vegetable dish that had been smothered in about six pounds of butter. Germany droned on in the background.
America looked up from his game of MarioKart. Japan, who was also playing at the other end of the table, had just barely beaten him for the sixth time in a row. The self-proclaimed hero was starting to get tired of it. He eyed France, then noticed his insanely buttery lunch. He glared, staring at the man's slender figure with envy. He crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it to get his attention.
"Mon dieu!" he cried, turning to shoot the offendor a sharp death glare.
"France! How do you eat that stuff and stay so thin!" America whispered, as quietly as America possibly could. The Frenchman grinned and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, the brand a bunch of French gibberish the American couldn't possibly understand. "I hope you get lung cancer!" he hissed, glaring. France just chuckled silently and put them away, returning to his food. America watched him eat with jealous lust.
He snapped out of it when he felt a clipboard come smacking down on his head from above. He looked up to see none other than Germany, teeth bared. "Achten, Amerika," the man sneered, and stormed off.
"I have no idea what you just said..." America muttered, but the retreating German either didn't hear him or purposely ignored him. He pouted, and turned to face the board.
On the other side of the table, Russia eyed his nearly-finished pencil sketch. In it, Russia had drawn himself roasting Tsar Nicholas II over a campfire and grinning evilly while several of his countrymen cheered him on. The real Russia's face changed to match the drawing Russia's face. He was pleased with his work, and put it away in a folder to start a new one. He looked up and stared out the window for inspiration, when he noticed little white things floating down from the sky outside. He gave a smile of genuine pleasure, which wasn't creepy at all. "It's snowing!" he exclaimed in delight.
Several other nations gasped and got up, rushing to peer out the windows. America stayed put, oddly. "No, it's just fake snow. I saw a dude with a snow machine out there earlier, it's probably just him." The Russian glared at him, and America inwardly trembled more than all three of the Baltics combined. Outwardly, though, he held his ground.
Russia smirked, and stormed outside, leaving several flabbergasted countries in his wake. "Are you sure that was such a great idea, America?" England asked, not looking up from his book.
America laughed nervously. "Well... no," he said.
Not a minute later, Russia just about sprinted back into the room, and lobbed a huge snowball in the blue-eyed nation's general direction. It whizzed past his ear and made contact with the wall, getting a high-pitched squeak from the American.
Russia cackled, while the rest of the room followed suit. "That was a funny noise, da?" he said between gasps of laughter.
America stood up, smirking. "Well, guess what Commie?" The freakishly tall European's face fell. "You missed!" he shouted, pulling out the remainder of the snowball from behind his back, and hurled it at his eternal rival with all his strength. It hit the Russian square in the face. Several "Oooohhh"s and chuckles came from around the room. America smirked at his defeated enemy, who was standing across the table. Kol after Kol spilled out of the platinum blond's mouth.
"Hey! Shut up!" Germany bellowed, breaking up the action. The nations returned to their seats, some groaning and some still cracking up. The meeting continued on.
Russia sat at his chair. On the downside, his face was sopping wet and more than a little bit cold. On the upside, he now had an idea for his next drawing. He started sketching out the shape that would become a terrified America dangling above the open mouth of a killer whale. Just then, a small slip of paper slid across the table and came to rest on top of the drawing. Russia picked it up and read the message: You. Me. Parking lot at lunch.
He looked up from the note and looked straight at America, who had a cocky grin spread across his face. Russia smiled right back. Next to him, France had pulled out a Zippo lighter and put one of his fancy cigarettes in his mouth. Russia took the note and held it above the flame, much to the Frenchman's annoyance, where it instantly caught fire and burned to a crisp. He made eye contact with America and nodded. The sandy-blond returned the gesture.
It was on.
As soon as Germany announced lunch break, America was out the door faster than a terrified Italy. Russia had left a few minutes earlier, saying he needed a drink of water. Seeing the crowd's suspicious faces, Germany had told them he was probably just going to gather babies to eat for lunch or something, but everybody else knew otherwise: advance preparations. Unfortunately, the European didn't let America out early as well.
He took the front stairs two at a time, pushing the door open mostly from the momentum instead of actual effort. Once outside, he scanned the vast parking lot in search of the Commie bastard. He spied Italy's red Ferrari, Japan's minuscule Toyota, France's funny-looking Renault, his own yellow Jeep Wrangler... which now had powdery white spots all over it.
"Dammit Russia!" he spat, and ran to his beloved car's rescue. After he'd brushed all thirty pounds of snow off the roof, he looked back across the parking lot and saw Russia's Volga, sitting pretty right next to a snowbank. America smirked, and went over to the car to work his magic.
A few minutes later, at least a ton of snow was packed behind the front wheels of the Volga. "Let's see him try to escape now," the American muttered to himself. He stood up and dusted his hands off, looking around to see if he could find Russia himself. Instead, he found a six-footer snowman standing in the middle of the parking lot. That's a weird place to put a snowman... he thought. He gave up on finding Russia, and instead decided to "investigate" the snow sculpture.
He poked it with a stick a few times, decided it was nothing special, and turned around to go back inside. He thought he was safe when the snowman spontaneously exploded. He whirled around in terror, waving his stick and yelling, "Back off! I'm armed!" only to realize that a Russian banshee was rumbling in his direction from within the snowman's ruins, carrying an armful of snowballs. One flew, hitting the American right in the throat and knocking him to the ground.
Soon Russia was on top of him (not in that way, fangirls!), chucking snowball after snowball. America was completely helpless; all he could do was grin and bear the unending torture. The towering nation exhausted his supply more than five minutes later. He giggled like a naughty schoolgirl and ran off, leaving a whimpering, terrified, partially immobile, and not to mention very wet American behind.
Back in the building, England took a bite out of a scone, carefully wiping the crumbs off his mouth with a napkin. From across the cafeteria, a certain Frenchman called out, "How does your rock taste, mon cher?" His croonies, Spain and Prussia (How did he get here?), cackled with delight, and the three slapped high fives.
The Briton cleared his throat, then called out, "Better than all of the cocks you've sucked in your entire pathetic existence combined together, frog."
France actually looked surprised. His jaw hung open, speechless. Much to England's annoyance, Prussia came to the frog's rescue. "Are you fucking serious? Betcha even West could come up with a better comeback than that!" Even then, it wasn't much of a rescue. The trio hooted and slapped hands again.
England rolled his eyes at the complete hooligans and returned to his lunch. His phone buzzed. He pulled it out and read the text he'd received. HELP! was all it said. Judging by how it was from America, and how he had plans for a snowball duel with Russia in the parking lot, it wasn't hard to figure out where he was. "Bloody git," England muttered under his breath and exited the cafeteria, secretly thankful for an excuse to get away from Frog and Co.
England returned to the conference room about ten minutes before the meeting was to resume, dragging his former colony with him. He dropped the taller nation in his chair and slapped him awake.
America groaned as he opened his eyes to find a pair of extremely fuzzy eyebrows boring straight into his soul. He sat up, wiping blood (Wait, blood?) off his mouth from where Russia had nailed him with a very... hard snowball.
"You better appreciate this you git, I had to drag your sorry ass all the way up from the parking lot. And by the way, you might want to lay off those BigMarks, or whatever they're called..."
"They're called BigMacs, and they taste at least a thousand times better than you cooking, so shut up!" America retorted, now fully awake. He looked up at the clock. "Iggy! There's like ten minutes left, that's way too early to be up here!"
"Iggy" scoffed. "It doesn't hurt to show up early once in a while, does it? Besides, you'll have time to plot revenge against Russ-" he slapped his hands across his mouth, watching with horror as an evil grin spread across the other's face. England imagined the nation's five-year-old self making that same face...
"Thanks, Iggy!" America cheered, all of a sudden back to normal. He bounced across the room in the direction of one of the other early arrivals: Japan.
The Asian sat at the table, reading a shojo manga. At this part, the main characters were stuck in a shed on Christmas Eve in the middle of a snowstorm. Japan kept his normal straight face, but on the inside he was green with envy for their not-being-in-a-meeting, even though logic told him to feel bad for the couple. In the next couple of pages the pair had been rescued. The vertically-challenged man was about to actually lose his cool when his friend America appeared. Of course, Japan had known he'd been coming for a while, the guy had the stealth of a marching band.
"Konnichiwa, Amerika-san," he said, looking up from the manga.
"Hey Japan, you know how you have a cosplay wig for like every single country in the world?" America asked, visibly bouncing on his heels.
"Hai, I actually have them with me," the Asian replied, a little confused.
"Well... could I see them?"
Japan nodded, and pulled a huge body bag seemingly out of nowhere.
America reached inside, and pulled out a wig that perfectly matched his own hair. "Wow, this is so weird..." he said, examining the wig. He shoved it back in the bag and fumbled around for a bit, finally pulling out a brown wig with a long ponytail. "Aha!" he exclaimed, putting it on. "So, you think you could keep the real China occupied?"
"Well, but the meeting..." the Asian mumbled, internally debating whether or not to tell his friend that he resembled China about as much as he resembled an alligator.
"You know what, just make Korea distract him for me, the guy owes me back for protecting him from his northern half back in the fifties anyway," America said, dropping the bag of wigs on the floor and turning to leave. Japan had to admit, he did look a little like China from the back, at the very least...
"... Why do you have all those wigs?"
Japan said nothing for a few moments. At last, he said, "You never know when you'll need to cosplay as someone you know, Amerika-san," tilting his head to the side in his usual fashion.
America just blinked, and backed away slowly.
Russia reentered the conference room, drifting on Cloud Nine. Seeing that Capitalist lying crumpled on the ground had almost as good an effect on him as looking at sunflowers while drinking an entire bottle of vodka. That would've been Cloud Ten. He looked around the room for his rival. He didn't find him. The nation grinned. Another scan, and he found China sitting at the table with his back turned to him. A China-stalking opportunity? Even better. Russia smirked, and crept up behind the unsuspecting Asian.
"Chiinaa... will you walk to the bathroom with me, daa?" he crooned, his hands hovering just above the ponytailed man's shoulders. Then, out of nowhere, "China" jumped up out of his seat, whirled around, and drowned Russia in tennis-ball sized hunks of snow. Between blows, he saw that his attacker's face looked oddly... American...
America ran out of snowballs, tossing the tray he'd used to hold them aside, laughing maniacally. "That was disturbing, Commie Bastard, don't ever say that again!" He ripped off his wig and returned to his seat just as Germany walked in to restart the meeting. Russia got up slowly, a little dizzy, and also sat back down. He glared, trying to bore holes into America's pathetic excuse for a soul. He would get his revenge... somehow...
Meanwhile, the real China stumbled around in the basement, his eyes covered by the hands of a certain Korean.
"No, it's this way Aniki," Korea chided, leading his brother around best he could. Then, the duo stopped. "Okay, open your eyes now, da-ze!"
China ripped Korea's hands off his eyes and looked around. "This is what you wanted me to see? They're just boxes, aru..."
Korea grinned mischieviously. "I know..." He jumped on China from behind and groped the man's "breasts."
Upstairs, the meeting had started. Germany was in the middle of lecturing the world about global cooling or whatever when a triumphant cry of "DA-ZE!" erupted from the bowels of the building.
"What was that?" he asked the crowd, answered with various shrugs.
At his seat, America panicked. He should've known that Korea would make... noises. "Oh, um... that was... my new ringtone! Yeah! Lemme get that..." he stammered, pretending to answer a text message. The other nations just stared at him, but returned to their work. Whew... that was way too close! he thought, and slipped out his DSi again. Maybe he could beat Japan this time... maybe...
The next day, Christmas, the meeting continued as per Germany's orders. Stupid workaholic, America thought as he slumped down in his chair, coffee in hand. He stared out the window at a group of teenagers clowning around in the streets, probably bragging about the gifts they got that morning. Lucky... He looked down at the desk in front of him and found a box sitting there. He picked it up, and read the note attatched. To: America, From: Iggy; This is yours, but it's special. I want everyone to see you open it, so wait until they arrive, you bloody git! America looked at England sitting next to him. The messy-haired blonde was doing... something with needles and thread, looking completely innocent.
America looked around the room: it was nearly packed. He stood up, box in hand, and cleared his throat. "Hey peeps! Iggy here just got me something special for Christmas, and he wanted everyone to see me open it!" he announced to the room. England looked taken aback, stammering and shaking his head. The rest of the room perked up.
"Is it an engagement ring?" Hungary quipped, grinning from ear to ear.
America stared at her, disturbed. "... Hungry, if you weren't so scary I'd throw a snowball at you.
"And my name is Hungary!" the woman scolded, waving her frying pan and looking a lot like an old-fashioned schoolteacher. She returned to her seat.
"Okay... anyway," America said, rubbing his head vigorously where the crazy yaoi fangirl had smacked him. "So, this is from Iggy..." He opened the box, and to everyone's suprise a snowball flew out of the box and hit him right in the face. All the countries were both confused and amused, except Russia who was just amused.
"That's for trapping my car here and making me walk in this cold, da?" he sneered, grinning a very creepy grin. America just scowled at him. "Oh, by the way, that was a yellow snowball." The American flipped out, mopping snow off his face, spitting more snow out of his mouth, and even inhaling a scone snatched right out of England's hand in hopes of getting the taste out. "Just kidding!" Russia sang.
"That was not funny, Russia!" America roared at him. "You made me eat his cooking!"
England stood up, slamming his fists on the table. "Are you implying something, git?"
"Yes!" the American snapped. Germany walked in at that moment, and everyone sat back down and played innocent.
Several minutes later, Germany called on Belarus to give a talk about the economy or something. As America stared up at her, he had an epiphany. Wait... Belarus... He grinned, somehow looking even creepier than Russia after a killing spree.
Belarus finished her talk and sat down, all the way at the far end of the table. She returned to drawing little hearts and RxBs all over her folder with a pink marker. Across the table, Ukraine watched her sister's excessive doodling. She couldn't help but be a little creeped out at how her sister was writing things like that and wearing that unnerving scowl...
The longer-haired, smaller-busted of the two sisters was harshly interrupted by her phone vibrating. Who dares to interrupt my happy time? she fumed silently. She pulled the phone out, reading the text: I have implanted a bomb under your brother's chair. Meet me on the roof of this building in ten minutes if you ever want to see him alive again. Belarus gasped, and shot a quick glance at her beloved brother. He looked perfectly fine, but was he? Ignoring the whispers and funny looks, she darted out the door and up the stairs. I'll save you, brother! Then we can finally become one!
She got to the roof in less than five minutes. Up there, a tall-ish figure, clearly male, was waiting for her. "Oh, you're early!" he exclaimed in suprise. Behind him was an iron-bar cage and a small canon.
"What do you want from me?" she asked the figure.
"Oh, just get in that cage or else I'll push this button right here," the figure instructed, waving a small remote in the air, "and turn your bro into a bowl of chili."
Belarus hastily obeyed. The gate slid shut, locking her inside. All she could do now was wait.
Russia had finally finished his America-about-to-be-eaten-by-a-killer-whale drawing. He giggled with delight, putting it away to join his Tsar Nicholas picture. His phone buzzed then. He could tell by the ring that this was a call, not a text. He stepped outside to answer it. "Privet?" he greeted.
"This is Russia?" The voice that answered sounded like America about to have an athsma attack. Weird.
"I have hired an assassin to kill China. Right now he is waiting inside the supply closet." Russia looked at the closet he was talking about. He lifted his lead pipe to possibly take a swing... "He is also wearing a distress belt, so if you try to take him out, I'll know. Now, come upstairs. I'll be waiting on the roof. If you do what I say, I'll call that assassin and tell him to go home." Russia nodded, even though the voice wouldn't be able to see it. "Now, if you're not up here in five minutes I'll tell him to go ahead."
The European hung up without saying goodbye, and ran up the stairs as fast as he could.
Meanwhile, Japan got a text from America, right in the middle of the meeting. It said, thanks for letting me borrow that death note manga! it was so inspiring! He put the phone away, slightly worried that his friend found a story about shinigami and serial killers "inspiring."
On the roof, Russia arrived on scene, panting like a dog. He saw a masked figure standing in front of a cage and a canon. A second glance showed that the cage contained his one and only creepy little sister. "Don't hurt China!" he pleaded the figure.
"Oh I won't, just stand on that little square thingy," the figure told him. Russia obeyed, and a rope randomly pulled tight around hit foot, trapping him there. The figure approached him, and handed him a small remote. "This remote turns on that snowball canon there, aimed right at you. While mine," he pulled out a second remote, "unleashes that really scary thing you call you sister. He backed away from the Russian and stood off to the side. "Now, either you push your button... or I push mine."
Russia looked from the figure, to the cage, to the canon. Figure, cage, canon, figure, cage, canon... he gulped, shut his eyes tight, pushed the button on his remote, and braced himself for the onslaught of snow.
To all three's suprise, the canon did not fire. Instead, the cage popped open and Belarus tackled her brother with a glomp of dear sisterly love. Above the sound of Russia's bawling, the figure cursed. He ripped of his mask. It was America, of course. "Crap! I must've given him the wrong remote..." and he pushed his. The canon fired snowballs at the couple, a million balls a minute. The pair fell over the edge of the roof from the force, and America felt his innards fall with them. He want over to inspect the damage, only to find that to two were simply dangling there, held in place by the rope tied around Russia's leg.
"Oh, shit..." he muttered, and fled the scene.
Quite a while later, Russia returned to the room, Belarus latched onto his arm. "Go back to your seat..." he said feebly.
Belarus' face fell, but she did what she was told. Russia was about to sit down himself, when he looked up at the board and saw that America would be speaking in twenty minutes. He quickly remembered the snowball canon and the fake sniper... and giggled.
"Hey Mattie, you're my brother and you love me, right?"
"Uh, sure America... why?" Canada asked innocently.
"Well, do you think you could give my speech instead? I'm feeling really lazy today, so..."
Canada was overjoyed. Finally, a chance to speak and be noticed! "Sure, I'll do it for you."
"Thanks Mattie!" America gave his twin a light punch on the shoulder and ran off.
Russia stood out on the balcony on the front of the building. From where he was, he could crawl back into the conference room through the window if he wanted to. But that's not what he wanted. He slung a home-made snowball bazooka over his shoulder, and looked at his watch. Just two more minutes and he'd have his chance.
At long last, America took the podium. Russia quietly opened the window just a bit, and slipped the nozzle of his bazooka inside. He couldn't help but notice that America looked oddly translucent. He figured it was just a trick of the light, and pulled the trigger. Snowballs erupted from the end of the bazzoka, pelting every available inch of "America's" body. Once the ammo ran out, he opened the window all the way and stepped through, cackling in victory. He stomped accross the table, on top of it, and stood over the fallen American. "Gotcha," was all he said.
Then, a very loud and obnoxious laugh echoed from the hall outside. Russia looked down at the body. "Maple," it cried. Then it hit him. He threw open the door, to find the real America standing in the middle of the hallway, looking smug.
KOLKOLKOLKOLKOL... Russia pulled his lead pipe from out of nowhere, and flung it with all his strength at the American. It almost felt like it was a slow-motion scene in an action movie as the pipe flew out of Russia's hand, down the hallway, barely two inches over America's shoulder, through a very expensive-looking window and into the outside world. Nobody laughed.
Germany looked like someone had stuffed him with TNT and lit the fuse. "You two. Come," he ordered, his face so scary that it bent both America and Russia to his will.
At the front of the conference room, Germany had set up a little interrogation table in front of everyone. He sat across from the offenders, lecturing with a ferocity that only Germany could manage. "This is getting out of hand! Think of all the damage you've caused! And what's worse: if France had been taking his smoke break by that window, the glass shard would have torn his face off!"
"I would let Prussia seize Big Ben if I could seen that! It'd be hilarious!" England announced randomly, laughing with much more delight than would be healthy. Germany shot him a death glare. "I mean, that was very irresponsible of you two. America, I thought I'd raised you better."
Prussia popped up from behind the abandoned podium. "I can have Big Ben? AWESOME!" he cheered.
"No," England spat, and casually walked off in the direction of the break room.
"Oh, fuck you, England!" Prussia called after him. The island country just showed off his middle finger in response, disappearing around the corner. The ex-nation scoffed.
At the table, Germany felt a migraine coming on. "Go home, Prussia," he growled.
"I love you too, West," Prussia said simply, and went back into whatever hole he'd crawled out of.
At last, the meeting ended. Nations poured out of the building and into their cars, hurreidly speeding off to prearranged meeting places to hold long-awaited Christmas parties. Even Germany appeared a bit excited as he climbed into the red Ferrari with Italy. The last one left was Russia. He stood over his Volga, eyeing the still-present pack of snow behind the tires. Until that was gone, he was stuck there. He looked around the parking lot, then spotted what looked like a shovel hanging out of a tree. He smiled: that was his ticket home. The man stood beneath the tree, looking around for any traps. He found none. Russia shrugged, and pulled the shovel down. Then, from behind, a not-so-small army of snowballs fell from the tree, burying him chest-deep in snow. And not to mention, the shovel was now ten feet away.