ALERT ALL PAST READERS! THIS CHAPTER WAS REVISED AND HOLDS SOME DETAIL THAT WILL BE NEEDED FOR LATER ON. THANKS YOU AND READ PLEASE. YOU TOO NEW READERS.
I'm sorry for being annoying.
Everyone knows that America almost always wears a bomber jacket. He always seems to be wearing it, almost like Russia and his scarf, not anyone said that comparison aloud.
Everyone also knows that there is a near endless supply of hamburgers, sodas, and various other junk foods in that jacket. Enough to survive on a deserted island as China not-so-fondly remembers. Rumor has it the alien, Tony, has something to do with it.
A few less people know that he is always carrying a map of his states with him in the left pocket. The printed words are barely legible underneath the various scribbles and notes that cover it.
Not many people know that he carries his own flag in a hidden back pocket. Italy knows, though, for once when he ran out of white flags America offered his. Never before had Germany and Romano been so horrified to see the other Italian covered in America's colors.
Only Canada and Russia know that he is always carrying at least two guns and knives on his person. Russia knows because America used them on him once. Canada because he was there; sometimes he still wonders if America keeps the small vials of poison in the fake-fur lined collar.
And nobody, excluding America of course, knows that he keeps a single little die in a hidden pocket on his right sleeve.
The die is almost entirely obsidian black except for the sky blue dots on five of its sides; on the sixth side it is completely blue without any other marking. Instead of being numbered from one through six, though, the die is numbered from zero to five. Completely smooth, always a degree above freezing, and surprisingly heavy for its tiny size, it makes for a strange object. One part of it, though, isn't as smooth as the rest, for a ragged crack ran diagonally down the side with only one dot. If one looks close enough, at the right time, and from the corner of their eyes they might notice a faint bluish green light emitting from the crack.
Sometimes America fingers the die, running his hand over the ever so slightly indented dots, pausing at the crack and then running his thumb over the blank side. And every time he did so he would wince.
Alfred knows that he's Zero, as that's usually the number he roles every time that adrenaline from the risk of gamble runs through him. As for One through Five, he's landed on them on the occasion…
And he watches the other nations, all whom he cares for very much regardless of their feelings towards him, insult him over and over and over again.
He takes it all in stride, because he's a nice person who doesn't want them to feel bad about themselves. But each time they sneer, or mock, or laugh at him he wants to laugh right back at them. Or roll his eyes, or scream, or maybe even break something. He just wants to tell them-
Do you know what I do for you? Do you know what I gave up for you? Do you know how painful it was, it still is, to choose you over them?
Do you know how hard it is to close my eyes and see them when I betrayed them?
Do you know how hard it is to be trapped here forever?
But it's okay, he tells himself, its okay that maybe it's my fault.
And they were monsters, anyway, monsters that could destroy the world if he had chosen them.
But who made them this way?
He can't let them loose because they are terrible, even if they love him, but the other nations don't deserve it without warning. Maybe not at all. But the die's cracking and he can't take it anymore and it seems so easy to let them loose, because he doesn't want them to be trapped anymore. Who was he to deny freedom when everything he did was for it?
And maybe life like this wasn't worth living, for any of them.
"You arrogant git!"
"Tue es stupide, Amérique!"
"Pay your bills already, you idiot, aru!"
"Maybe it's because he's so overweight, da?"
He wants it to stop, but he's afraid to say anything because he doesn't know what will come out of his mouth, or worse, what he might do.
And he can hear the others.
Why don't you set them straight, Al? You don't have to deal with this.
I agree with One and Three. But if anything happens… I like Five's idea, Alfie. You would do well to follow his advice.
Keep watch over them, they are proving how weak they are, Zero. Remember, an attack is best given swift and fatal. A relentless bombardment is always an option, of course, but not only does it waste time and resources, but it gives the defendant a chance to analyze all moves and tactics. This goes the same for verbal abuse.
Why they so mean, Alfie? It hurt you. Why you no hurt back? Fourey worried for you. If you hurt Fourey will hurt back, okay?
I say for you to nuke them. Maybe another A-bomb will set them straight again, the idiots. Why don't you, little Alfie? Too scared?
And dear old Five…
He was terrified to let them out.
But, as he fingered the die in his hand, he wondered if he should role another number.
I do not own Hetalia.
Hmm... I'm wondering whether or not to continue this... Is it to cliche? I really don't want to copy the fic "The Four Faces of America" which, by the way, has a very good plot.
Ah, well, feed back would be nice if you're willing.