Hello, and welcome to my story. Let's get the disclaimer out of the way, shall we? Prussia, as the hero of the story, would you do the honors?
Prussia: Awesome! Rookanga does not own Hetalia-Axis Powers, or the Awesome Me.
Yes...thank you. Anyway, this story is pretty much a lot of Prussia pretending to be a human, even though we all know he's much too awesome to be just any human. I sort of forgot what I was going to say. Oh yeah! I have three more chapters typed up, so I'll try to remember to get another up next week. Well, then. Shall we?
I was awesome today. I totally scored the best job ever, without help from the government. Well, actually, the natural need of the people to cater to my every wish helped, but I did it on my own. I got a job working for Deutsches News. I just went in for an interview, and they up and gave me a whole show. How awesome is that?
Gilbert Beilschmidt was indisputably the most popular news anchor in Germany. Who didn't love a guy that was sweet enough to cute little birds nestle in his hair on air, but tough enough to stand up for a little albino girl who was being harassed. It certainly didn't hurt that he was attractive, but not enough so for the other men in Germany to feel threatened. And everyone, especially those in East Germany, found his always-cocky manner to be strangely endearing.
To the people that knew him personally, though, that aspect of him was just annoying. But here in Berlin, his colleagues at Deutsches News all liked him anyway. They all thought it was because he was above them in the journalism hierarchy, and they wanted a spot at the top. Gilbert himself knew better.
Gilbert had once been the Teutonic Knights. Then he was Prussia–the Awesome Prussia, mind you. Then he spent forty or so years as Soviet-controlled East Germany, and now he personified roughly the eastern half of Germany, although since he had relinquished his power to his brother (he figured his taste for being a country had blown away over the tundra of Siberia, and what was the point of being a nation when your little brother insisted you had to focus on engineering instead of declaring war on every nation that bothered you, anyway?), most of the other nations figured he'd somehow managed to hold on to life even though he was no longer a nation. He usually didn't show up to World Meetings, but he liked to show up sometimes, especially when Austria had tried super hard not to let the information of where the World Meeting was being held get to him, not knowing that he was given the information from the bosses like everyone else.
Still, though, Gilbert liked attention, and pretending not to be a landmass to avoid responsibility meant that the other nations spent a lot less time paying attention to the Prussian. So Gilbert got his boss to make him a fake childhood, and shoved his way into the big leagues of broadcast journalism. It was an ideal job; he had to work pretty much every day, but his show, The Awesome Gilbert Beilschmidt (he could thank his boss for that one, too–he really liked his current boss), aired live at eight at night, so he had a lot of the day free. He just let the interns and the editing guys work behind the scenes while he spent his day sleeping, drinking beer, calling people *cough cough* Hungary *cough cough* to bother them, and when he finally did show up for his show, chatting with the other reporters, Else Müller, Gerhard Junger, and Kartoffel, as Gilbert had affectionately named the pudgy man. (Confession time: Gilbert didn't know the guy's real name. Talk about a good boss.)
"And we're live," an intern (who was older than Gilbert) said. Gilbert had trained himself not to wince into all that light, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt his especially sensitive eyes. Albinism. Look it up, dumkopfen.
Gilbert turned on his fifty-watt smile and aimed it at the camera. "Hi, welcome back to Awesome Gilbert Beilschmidt. Yup, that's me, and no, I definitely didn't choose the name." Up the sarcasm. Easy chuckle.
"Thankfully," Gilbert continued, more serious now, "there are no particularly heinous crimes being committed right now in Germany, so let's go to Julian, live in New York. Julian, what's going on there?"
Julian, who was a big part of AGB, although Gilbert rarely spoke to him without it being through a camera, because Julian was a foreign correspondent, stood on a street corner in New York City, a clear view of the UN building behind him. Gilbert knew the very corner. He'd often left World Meetings to go and smoke there.
"Gilbert, there's been some nervousness here, ah, as you can see, I'm in front of the UN building in New York City, it's right here behind me, and there's been some excitement because for almost a week now, people passing by have heard enraged shouting in several languages, and earlier today, someone was actually pushed from a third floor window. Luckily it was very low down, so the man was rushed to the hospital, and is reported to be in stable condition."
Gilbert grinned, feeling a little freer now that the audience couldn't see him. There was a reason the nations were never allowed to hold their meetings in high places, and that reason involved a length of rope, a prized piano, and a certain albino.
"Thanks, Julian," Gilbert said, half turning his spinning chair so he faced forwards. "Wonder what's going on there. Speaking of New York, yesterday…"
It was nine thirty. His AGB ran for an hour and a half, which seemed weird to Gilbert, but he didn't argue.
"Gil," said Else. He looked up, but it was still bright, so he slid on a pair of sunglasses and looked again. Else was holding out a can of Becks.
"Ach, ja," he said. Taking the beer from her, he gave her cheek a kiss. "Ich liebe dich."
She sighed. "Why are you such a flirt? It's not like you can ever get the girl, anyway."
Gilbert winked at her. "Maybe it's not the girl I want to get. Well there are some girls, actually. Male, female, doesn't matter to me."
"Truly?" Else said. "Because you always seem pretty straight to me." She had never heard that her boss was bisexual before, and him declaring it in such a casual manner surprised her.
"Oh, yeah?" Gilbert laughed. "How so?"
"Well, for one, you only flirt with girls."
"That's because I'm trying to see if any girls can resist my immense charms and awesomeness."
Else snorted. "What awesomeness?"
Gilbert's eyes widened. Or at least Else thought they did. She couldn't see behind his glasses, but his eyebrows rose significantly.
Gilbert looked like he was about to have an aneurism, so Else said, "Oh, there's Ernest." She waved someone over.
"Who?" asked Gilbert. Oh, Kartoffel. So that was his name. "Oh, right, Ernest. Right." Ouch. Totally unawesome.
Kartoffel (Gilbert couldn't help thinking of him by that name. He was just so much like a potato. Gilbert didn't mean to be a jerk or anything.) came up to Else and Gilbert, followed by Gerhard. The former gave the albino a dirty look. Uh-oh. Time to utilize charm to win over this guy. How had Gilbert never noticed that he hated him before?
"So, Ernest. How was your day?" Lame, but people loved to talk about themselves. (Gilbert knew from very, very personal experience.)
Kartoffel coughed. "Good, thank you, Gilbert."
Gilbert tried again. "So what did you do?"
"I went shopping, took my little girl to the park." Kartoffel glared at Gilbert again, as if to say, "She's a little girl. There will be no harming her, hear?" He added, "And you?"
"Oh, you know," Gilbert answered vaguely, mainly because he had spent the day in question teasing Poland about how part of his land had once been controlled by Prussia, and snickered when Poland answered, "Oh, yeah? Well, now you, like, have no land."
"Well, I had a wonderful day," Else put in. "Do you want to hear about it?"
"Not particularly," Gilbert said, sounding intentionally bored.
"Well," said Else. "What happened to nice, flirty Gilbert?"
"You shot me down," Gilbert said. "I don't care anymore."
"And you reveal your true colors," Else said.
"I'm like a delicious candy," Gilbert said. "Crushed graham cracker on the outside, but with plenty of holes to fall onto the hard chocolate shell. And underneath the chocolate shell is a Peep."
"What's a peep?" asked Else.
Gilbert rolled his eyes. None of the others could see it, but they knew he was doing it. "American candy. It's like a super-sweet marshmallow thing. The life and nectar of the Gods. I get them when I go to Canada to visit my friend. I like them because they look like Gilbird."
"I still can't get over the fact that you named your pet after yourself," Gerhard interrupted.
"Are you suggesting that Gilbird doesn't deserve the highest possible amount of awesomeness he can achieve?"
Else cut in again, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. "So how do we get past the chocolate to the Peep?"
"There are cracks," Gilbert said. "You guys have it easy if you want to find the Peep. Other people have already cracked the shell for you. All you have to do is find them."
"I'm not buying this," Else said. "This still sounds a lot like flirty Gilbert. I think you're just graham cracker crumbles over hollow chocolate."
Gilbert smiled. "Blowing holes in my strategy, are you? How unawesome."
"That's not a word," Kartoffel muttered.
"Fine. You're fired."
Kartoffel gaped at Gilbert. "F-fired? But I have a wife and a daughter! Please, Mr. Beilshmidt, bitte schön!"
"Stop groveling," Gilbert snapped. "You're not fired."
The man stopped immediately. "Danke! Danke!" he cried.
Gilbert sneered. "Is this how you act all the time? Stoic and disapproving until you feel threatened? What kind of man are you?"
Kartoffel drew himself up to his whole, less-than-impressive height. "I'll tell you, Gilbert," he raged. "You're a jackass who cares about nobody but yourself. I bet you don't even know how, in your own words, unawesome you are. You chastise me for being weak? You're just the same! You're weak, and pathetic, and–"
Gilbert cut him off. "Where are you from?"
Kartoffel seemed taken aback. "What does that have to do with the question?"
"Just. Answer. It," Gilbert said, stepping forward threateningly.
"Munich," Kartoffel humphed.
"Ah," Gilbert said, stepping back. "That makes sense."
"What are you talking about?" Kartoffel looked confused, then angry. "Is that some sort of swipe at my city of birth?"
"No," Gilbert said. "You are the weak one, Kartoffel, not me. Someday you'll realize that." And Gilbert Beilschmidt, the Teutonic Knights, Prussia, East Germany, turned and walked away, ignoring the shocked looks from his colleagues.
Gilbert sighed and kicked off his shoes. It had been rough at work. And Kartoffel was a real arschloch, that was for sure. But still…he'd reminded Gilbert a bit of himself. Not that Gilbert thought of himself as weak.
The first order of business was to change out of his jacket, dress shirt, and tie. Second was to call West for an update on the state of Germany. Ironically, Gilbert didn't trust the news for information.
The third thing Gilbert did after getting home was to check Twitter. Gilbert had a personal one and one for his show.
On AwesomeGB, Celia_coolness wrote,
Hiya Gil! I love your show, but are you ever going to do something about that conspiracy? #don'ttrustthesystem
It didn't take long for Celia_coolness to respond.
Wow, for a news guy you're really not well informed. :P The conspiracy theory about the countries. How they're people, and the government is hiding them from us. #don'ttrustthesystem #don'ttrustthenews
Gilbert's breath became shorter. His mind raced. Surely someone in his group would have heard about this, and then he would have heard about it. Gilbert may have had a big mouth, but that didn't mean he didn't understand the need to keep quiet about this.
Okay, Prussia, he told himself, you're awesome. Nothing can get you. Calm down and respond to that girl. Rationally, as if this doesn't worry you. He set his fingers on the appropriate places on the keyboard, and began to type:
Sorry, but at AGB we report news, not theories. Come back with solid evidence, or at least a reason why it's important.
And then Celia_coolness gave the reply Gilbert had been dreading.
But there is evidence. Just look it up. #don'ttrustthesystem #don'ttrustthenews #notatheory #googleit
Gilbert hurriedly pulled up a new tab and searched country personification conspiracy. There was a whole website devoted to it. He clicked on the link, and his browser turned black.
Huge white letters were printed on the webpage: WHO IS YOUR COUNTRY REALLY? There were message boards about possible country sightings. Gilbert clicked on it, frantically looking for a description with any semblance to a country he knew.
Someone had met an auburn-haired Italian guy, which worried Gilbert for a moment, but then he read that the man had been totally dissing every other culture, and Gilbert relaxed, because Italy wasn't like that.
Still, though, Gilbert's fingers were cold as dry ice. He could barely keep them from shaking as he clicked around the webpage. Finally, he found a page that displayed a number of reasons why this conspiracy was not just a theory.
A U.S. government official said that there are documents referring to America as "he" and constantly referencing someone named Alfred. These documents are from several different points in history.
Verdammt. It was always America, wasn't it? Not that it was America himself–the dude was irresponsible, but not this much. Just Americans in general were so careless, in his experience.
There are letters of correspondence between someone called, "P" and Frederick the Great, King in Prussia. "P"=Prussia? Click here to see the letters.
This, at least, wasn't a surprise to Gilbert. He knew that some of his correspondence to his favorite boss was on the Internet. He just honestly couldn't see how that could prove that there were personalities of countries.
But then again…he hadn't read that letter in ages. Maybe there was something.
Anyway, Gilbert had no desire to go through his memories. This girl was deluded. That was evidence? He went back to Twitter and wrote:
Celia_coolness Sorry, but there's nothing conclusive. But write me if you find anything!
Gilbert sat back, sighing deeply. He was mulmig im Magen. Butterflies were flitting their way around his stomach, and his breath was short. Forget it, there was no way to describe the feeling.
He reached for the phone to call Germany again, but at the last moment drew his hand back. Maybe his brother had already known about this. It was true that Prussia had been fairly distant lately; if he didn't contribute anything, Germany wouldn't have told Prussia anything if he thought he wouldn't be of any help. Prussia hadn't attended a World Meeting since New Hampshire.
But this–this was rather important. Germany wouldn't have kept this from Prussia. And Prussia had no right to keep this from the other countries.
He dialed Germany's cell number.
Prussia spun his chair around approximately 180 degrees, and said, looking serious, as if it were the final moment of a television episode, "Hey, West. We need a World Meeting."