AN. Hello! After sitting at my computer for hours fighting back the nerves, I've decided to finally post this. "This" is my first ever APH fic, and I will probably completely fail at writing with Hetalian characters… so please leave reviews to give me advice or confidence! None of the mentioned politicians in this story are in any way real/based off any existing people. The President of the US (in this story) is purely fictional.
Disclaimer: Hetalia does not, has never, and will never belong to me. The concepts and plotline in Reform, however, do.
6:55 PM, Local Time
A phone rang: the tinkling chimes echoing loudly through the huge, lonely mansion.
Tired fingers clutched at thin air, before coming to rest on a button.
"That would be me." The answering voice was masculine: cool and detached.
Businesslike, mused the Nation.
For that was what it was. Business.
"I have made my decision."
"What is it?"
"I… I am prepared to accept my Government's request."
The politician, far on the other end of the line, paused, taken momentarily off-guard.
"You are surprised?" asked the Nation, raising an eyebrow.
"Slightly," said the politician. "I would have expected you, of all people, to have disagreed. Though, you are not really a person, are you?"
"No, I am not."
The politician's soft sigh crackled down the telephone line. "In that case… You and your counterparts are to be erased first thing tomorrow morning."
"Understood, Mr Rogers. Good night."
The President of the United States surveyed the council room, beady eyes flitting from one face to another. There was a determined set to his jaw, and his lips were pressed into a thin, tight line.
"Last night," he began, "I received another one of these threats. It was sent by the same terrorist group as last time. I quote, 'If you, Mr President, do not agree to terminate the Personifications, I will see to it that ever man, woman and child under your jurisdiction suffer in their stead.'"
A balding man, skin painted grey with stress, got slowly to his feet, and cleared his throat. "A number of us have spoken to our Nations regarding this matter. They have all agreed to… step down, if you will allow the terminology."
"So are we all in agreement?" asked the President. His tone was conversational: inappropriate for the setting. The tension in the large room was tangible, the silence deafening.
Slowly, the other politicians in attendance nodded. The English Prime Minister rose from her seat, and smiled blandly at the President.
"Yes. The Nations must go. Far too much conflict has been attributed to their many disputes. And many-" she cleared her throat, a look of annoyance passing over her face, "-are disobedient."
Noises of ascent could be heard from all corners of the room, particularly from the Italian President, who shook his head, muttering under his breath. His Nations, in particular, were exceptionally troublesome.
"It is settled then. All that must now be done is for the oaths to be withdrawn." The American President lifted a heavy tome from the podium in front of him, and gently opened the cover.
"In alphabetical order, if you will."
"America? What the bloody hell are you doing, falling asleep on me?"
England roughly shook the taller Nation, who had apparently decided to take an impromptu nap on his shoulder. America had never fallen asleep in the middle of Top Gun before.
For a moment, all was quiet.
Then, with a loud splintering noise, America's wire-frame glasses snapped cleanly in two, the glass within them shattering.
"So then I was all, 'Go Home, You Pervert,' and he… What's with you, West? Did you just fall asleep on me?"
Prussia glanced across at his younger "brother," who had slumped forward onto the kitchen table, sending his mug of beer tumbling to the floor.
The amber liquid seeped slowly across the white tiles, eerily reminiscent of blood.
"West? Hell, Germany! Wake up!"
"Liet! Like, what's with you?"
"Romano? Lovi? Lovi!"