Dro: Don't ask me why I started writing this now. I was bored at 1:00 AM last night and decided to find something to do. Although it does feel refreshing to have another fic in the works. I probably won't update this too often until I finish World Powers though, so don't expect a clockwork rotation update like my other three fics. Those will still be updated in their normal 3 day rotation until I finish World Powers, at which point this will take its place. (Or that's my plan anyway...)

Chapter Summary: After learning what the other nations really think of him, America desperately wishes to get away from it all, only to end up end a virtual nightmare.

Warnings: Violence, Language

Disclaimer: Dro has not and never will own APH. She is a poor, poor college student and will probably not be winning the lottery any time soon. Plus, you probably don't want me to own APH. If I did, this would be canon.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe, damn it!

He turned the corner too fast, his knees grating against the concrete as he slipped, tearing the skin of his knees open. He caught himself with his uninjured hand and pulled himself back up, darting into the alleyway just as a barrage of bullets blew past his head and bounced off the scarred brick walls of the decaying apartment complex. He cradled his bloody left hand close to his body, its tendons mutilated to the point where his fingers wouldn't even twitch.

His lungs burned with each breath, and he knew he was getting close to his limit. There was a bullet in his chest, and he could feel it resting against his lung, taunting him with every ounce of air he inhaled. He didn't know what that bullet had injured, and he didn't want to. As long as he wasn't on the very of death at this very moment, that was good enough for him. Because he had to keep running. No matter what.

His shoulder grazed the corner of the decrepit building as he cut his turn too close, and he winced. He didn't need anymore injuries. There were tears blurring his vision, and they were a disability enough on their own. This was…this was the most terrifying thing that had ever happened to him in his entire life. He leapt over a fallen trash bin and hit the ground running. He wasn't sure how it started or how it was going to end, but he figured it couldn't possibly get much worse. Not at this point.

For the millionth time in the last minute alone, he wondered just what it was they were after him for. The financial crisis? The war in the middle east? Had China finally snapped over his massive debt and turned the rest of the world against him? A million possibilities. He wasn't even sure he wanted to know the answer. That wouldn't give him any sort of reprieve. Not after the hostility they'd already shown.

They were going to kill him. He knew that already. There was no escape for him this time. There was no easy way out. Or hard way. He was in Moscow. He had no way to reach the airport. He had no way to flee all the nations who were actively hunting him down. They'd been set off so suddenly, guns blazing before he could even get out a question as to why they all seemed so shocked and horrified to see him. Had his country done something without his knowledge? He wouldn't know. He never knew nowadays. He barely knew what he was doing himself most of the time.

As his breathing became more labored, he thought back to the beginning of the day. He tried to crush the pang of sorrow in his chest, the one that had blossomed earlier in the day as he'd stood on the other side of that door and just listened. Just shut up and listened like Arthur had been telling him to do for centuries.

He would regret it for the rest of his life.

He gingerly approached the meeting room, checking his reflection one more time in the mirror. He looked perfect today. His suit was pressed and clean. His tie was straight. His hair was combed. He smiled as brightly as he could, checking it for any signs of discontent that may have leaked through. But no, that too was perfect. He was the epitome of ignorant happiness with a helping of obnoxious arrogance. Just like he'd always been.

Occasionally, he considered walking into a meeting with a different act. Maybe the way he was really feeling? Stressed out. Frustrated. Physically ill for weeks at a time. Depressed. Angry. But no, he couldn't do that. It was too much of risk, he knew. A sudden change in his demeanor could have catastrophic results. Some would try to take advantage. Others would shy away in fear of a beleaguered superpower, who held in his hand the firepower to crush them if they said the wrong thing. Being a superpower was hard. Harder than most of them assumed. They usually seemed to be under the impression that life as America was easy.

He couldn't remember a time when it had been. He remembered the laid back and care free exploration of the West. But that quickly came crashing down. He remembered the roaring twenties. But that was just the façade of a catastrophe laying in wait. Never in his life could he have called being America "easy," and he couldn't imagine why the rest of the world would think his existence was any better than theirs.

He made his way toward the conference room but stopped short when he heard angry voices on the other side. The door was cracked open slightly, and he leaned close, trying to gauge the atmosphere of the room. They'd always been convinced he couldn't do that. Sometimes, that made him smile, half amused, half sorrowful. Because that meant that either he was so clever that he could hide his actual intellect from everyone in the world or that not a single other nation cared enough to try to truly understand him. He figured it was best to remain ignorant to the answer.

The response was immediate. He heard Yao yelling about his money like usual, but the tone, typically mockingly belligerent and prodding, was more akin to fury and malice now.

"I am telling you, for the last time, we need to do something about that imbecile! He is dragging the whole world down!" The sound of a fist hitting the table followed.

"Yes. Yes, Yao. We know the bloody wanker needs a good beating. Unfortunately, that's not exactly an option." Arthur answered, his voice oddly cold in place of its usual fire.

"Well, what are our options? We have to do something!" Francis replied.

"Why do you expect me to have all the answers? Just because the git bothers me the most doesn't mean I know what to do with him!"

Someone coughed, and the room quieted. A softer voice picked up the conversation. Matthew's. "Can everyone just listen for a moment, please? I know you're all angry, and I know why. But you can't just go blaming my brother for everything. He's not the only one at fault here, and you know it. Most of us contributed to this economic mess. And Alfred isn't the only one who's been taking military actions in places he doesn't quite belong." Matt's voice dropped near the end of that sentence.

Ivan dared to reply in his usual fashion. "That is true, Matvey. No one is denying that. What we are saying is that your brother does not take things seriously. He never has and never will unless we force him to."

Matthew was quiet. Alfred knew why. Mattie had been there at the peak of the financial crisis, when Alfred had beat his fists against the bathroom mirror until his skin was a shredded mess, when he'd thrown up until there was nothing left but stomach acid. He'd been so sick they'd been forced to take him to the hospital. That stay had been kept on the down low. Which meant no one knew but Mattie. Not Kiku. Not even Arthur.

After that, how could Alfred not take things seriously? It wasn't like he hadn't been before either. He took his job very seriously. He tried his hardest to manage his immense workload, even when the country was spiraling downward and he was feeling ever blip on the radar. But of course no one would know about that. He was the happy-go-lucky idiot whenever he was in front of them. He was sure Mattie didn't quite believe the farce anymore, and sometimes he doubted Ivan did either, especially after the Cold War. But Ivan would always take a stab at him if the opportunity was given, no matter what he really thought on the matter. And Mattie had always had a soft voice without, unfortunately, a big stick. So there was only so much he could do to quell their anger.

It only got worse from there.

Their were cries for "retribution." There were shouts advocating physical harm. He pushed against the wall for support, his stomach churning. Some of them, some of the ones who desired to hurt him…they were his friends. He wondered if they always felt like this toward him, if they always had. He'd tried his best not to appear hostile, to appear to be only a docile fool with big dreams. Someone easy to befriend. What if his ruse hadn't worked though? What if it had never worked? Sure, he'd used his mask for alliances, for gain for his own country. Everyone did that, right? But he'd genuinely thought he'd made some real friends alone the way, made bonds with people he could trust.

Apparently he hadn't.

At one point, it became too much to handle. He backed away from the door, tears threatening to fall. Some of the things he heard Francis, heard Arthur say…he couldn't listen to it anymore. He needed air. Now. As he rushed toward the elevator, heart pounding in his chest, breathing shallow, he wondered if this was what a panic attack felt like. He practically stumbled into the suspended box, hastily clicking the button that would take him to the lobby.

He tried to compose himself before he reached his destination, gripping the bar that lined the elevator tightly. Too tightly. It started to deform under his freakishly strong hold, and he immediately released it, praying the hotel didn't have a elevator camera. As soon as the damn thing dinged and doors started to roll open, he was out, pushing quickly past a group gathered in front of it. He ignored their angry jabs. He'd had too many today. He didn't need anymore.

He finally collapsed in an alley, ducking beside a trashcan. He could imagine their laughter now. Just think, America was curled up beside a trashcan, sobbing like a little child. He'd be the laughingstock of the world. Oh wait, he remembered bitterly, he already was. Sometimes, he thought maybe he should take whole damn thing over and wipe every other single fucking na—

He swallowed nervously.

Fight it. Fight it, Alfred. Fight it off like you always have.

That damned voice.

It wasn't really a voice. It wasn't anything in reality or even in his mind. It was no hallucination, and it wasn't his imagination. It had been there since the day he was born, telling him where to go and what to do. He'd listened to its every word for many years. Until Arthur had come. He'd been curious at that time, curious as to what the rest of the world looked like. The voice had warned him then, warned him that if he exposed himself to the rest of the world, that there was no going back. That if he did this, it could have irreparable consequences on both himself and the rest of the world.

He had been a child then.

And he had not listened.

Often, as he laid awake at night, biting his own tongue until he choked on his blood to distract himself from the voice, he wished he could go back and fix that mistake. After he'd chosen to go with England, the voice had changed. It had morphed from a helpful, kindly conscience into something…twisted. For a while, he had continued to listen to it. Expand, it had said. Destroy them, it had claimed as a solution to the "Indian problem." It's your side of the world. Push them out! He couldn't recall how many times it had said that back in the day. Before it had decided that the Eastern hemisphere apparently belonged to him as well.

Now the voice was a constant reminder of why he needed to be the aloof idiot the world thought he was. He had to act that way, and he needed it to be believable. He was sure that if he slipped up and tried to be smart about everything that the voice would eventually push its ideas through him subconsciously. So that was the end of the that. Nothing intellectual. No bright ideas. The voice had proven many times in the past that it was not, under any circumstances, to be trusted.

He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself down and simultaneously ignore the voice. He rocked slowly back and forth. He just needed to relax. It was a hard thing to ask while being in a smelly, dirty alley, but it was the only thing he was asking for, so he expected to happen. Eventually, it did, but the entire ordeal left a dull ache in his chest and a slow burn in his now tearless eyes. He kept his breathing steady, trying to focus on happier things, but everything rounded back to someone he trusted. Every memory rounded back to someone he'd called a friend, someone, who, half an hour ago, had spoken of doing heinous things to him.

He wished this would all just go away.

All of it.

The entire world around him.

No. No that wasn't what he wanted.

He wanted himself to go away.

He wanted to be spirited off from this dreadful world with its lies and its deceit and never ending greed. Never in his life had he wanted something as much as he wanted this.

He just wanted to get away!

And when he'd opened his eyes, he realized he had gotten away. Day had turned to night. Summer had turned to winter. It was like he had gone right through a gap in time and space.

And walked straight into a nightmare.

They were gaining on him. He didn't know who they all were. He'd caught a glimpse of Francis, of Antonio, but the others were a mystery. He highly suspected one was Vash, as the same masked man had hit him twice with deadly accurate aim. He couldn't imagine for the life of himself, though, what had enticed Switzerland to join the hunt for him. He thought back to his confusion over the change in time and season. Maybe he had jumped into the future, where the nations had finally decided to execute whatever plan they'd come up with to "teach him a lesson."

He didn't have time to think about it though. Something hit him in the back. And exploded into flames. He screamed and fell to the ground, thankfully rolling right into a large puddle of water. He pushed himself back up as fast as he could, but they were closing in now. He took a left. He remembered the layout of Moscow to some degree. His experience from the Cold War had taught him to know the enemy as well as possible. But his pursuers seemed to know it even better.

As he reached the end of the alley he had darted down, a semi-automatic appeared in his vision at the last moment, slamming into his jaw. He felt the bone pop out of its place, and he cried out as he hit the ground. Hard, his vision blurring as the back of his head struck the concrete. As it cleared, he realized who was standing above him.

"T…Toris…" He could barely talk with his dislocated jaw.

The Lithuanian peered down at him in sheer disgust. How could this be Toris? His dreary mind wondered. Toris was kind and calm and collected. He wasn't one for raging violence. He had fought in many wars, but he had always been the same man as long as Alfred had known him. Or had he? Alfred wore a mask. Obviously his "friends" did too when it came to their opinion of him. Perhaps Toris did the same. Perhaps Alfred had never known the real Toris at all.

Well, whoever he had known, it certainly hadn't been this Toris, who snarled at him as he spoke. "I've been waiting for this moment for twenty years, you know? And I intend to make sure you suffer for every second I waited." He raised the gun high, and Alfred closed his eyes, praying for a quick death that he knew wouldn't come. Whatever he had done to make them this angry, to make them hate him like this, he couldn't imagine.

The gun fell, striking his temple and rendering him immediately unconscious.

Then again, most of them seemed to hate him just because he was America.

Dro: This is the beginning of my darkest fic ever...which is quite a claim I must say.

Next Chapter: America's nightmare continues to get worse as the other nations interrogate him about things he has no knowledge of. He begins to realize that he may not be in his home universe anymore. Meanwhile, back in said home universe, the angry nations wonder where America has run off to.