Fate/Servant Powerpuff (Part 1)

Teaser Chapter: still in process Edit: will take a long still in process

Chapter XIX: Princess Of Piracy Makes Her Debut.

"D-dios mio... where am I?"

Spain struggled to open his eyes, as he felt himself being rocked back and forth-still somewhat dizzy from his sleep. He was lying on an unfamiliar wooden floor, and when he tried to move his hands, he couldn't. They were shackled together behind his back, and his arms were tied to him with a thick rope. 'That bastard caught me...' Spain thought bitterly, as he recalled the previous night's events. The attack. The fighting. The sound of the cannons firing at his ship. He could still somehow smell the gunpowder in his clothes, and hear the sound of steel meeting steel in his ears. He vaguely remembered being knocked out, and quickly tied up and hauled into the cell by one of the other captain's crew members. He was alone in the dark until he finally heard footsteps heading his way, echoing through the halls.

"Rise and shine, 'tonio." A voice came from the railings, as Spain tried to focus his eyes onto the figure across him. It was his captor—none other than the infamous Captain Arthur Kirkland, the commander of the British Empire. "It's so nice to see you awake." England made his way into the cell, followed by a few of his men. It seemed as if he couldn't even visit him all by himself.

"Desátame ahora, hijo de puta!*" Spain exclaimed, as the Brit got closer. He struggled against his binds furiously, trying to break free to no avail. His shackles just rattled behind him and he looked up—his furious stare burning right into the light green eyes that looked down upon him.

"Don't waste your breath, I don't speak dog." England said, as he stood right in front of Spain. "You're probably not surprised why I'm keeping you here, but I actually have business with you today." England smirked and crouched down, holding up Spain's face in his hand. "My, the rumors were right. You really are lovely." He laughed, scanning the other man's features. The sun-kissed complexion, the wavy brown hair that framed his face perfectly, and the deep emerald green eyes that shone with a passion, almost made England envious. "And to think I've hated you... all these years."

"Tch. ¡No me toques, cabrón!**" Spain spat out at England, pulling his face away from the grip. The very touch of the other sent chills down his spine; England's hand was so cold that the floor against his skin just earlier was nothing. But it figured; Spain had heard a lot of chilling stories about the man. He was ruthless and cruel, and didn't live by any code. No morals, and no God. It wasn't surprising if his hands mirrored his heart.

Spain didn't really know much about him; and this was actually the first time he had seen the man up close. The feathery blonde hair, the pale skin, the light green eyes and that certain air of supremacy about him—it was the first that Spain ever got to observe them all like this. All he really knew was that like he—England was an empire. His king's latest orders were to enter British waters and judging from his predicament, it seemed to have been a big mistake.

England slowly wiped away the spit from his shirt, his smile replaced with a tinge of fury. "I told you, I don't understand a thing that you're saying, really." He held his hand back, hitting Spain on the cheek, as the Spaniard let out a small cry in pain. "I will not let you treat me like this on my ship." England said and took a fistful of his hair, holding Spain up to meet his gaze. The crewmen around him started laughing, and cheering for their captain. "Right now, some of my men are searching your ship for your gold. They've covered half of it, but have yet to find any, save for a couple of trinkets and coins scattered around. You will tell me where your gold is, or I will make sure that you suffer."

Spain just smiled and licked the blood from the corner of his mouth. "You hit... like a little puta***."

Another strike landed on Spain's face, as England pulled back his hand and struck him with his fist. He pushed his boot against Spain's chest, knocking him down as he ground his heel into the other's sternum. He quickly drew his sword and brought the tip to Spain's neck. "I'd choose my words carefully; that happens to be a word I'm familiar with." He lightly grazed the sharp tip of his sword against Spain's skin, drawing a thin line of blood.