Intoxicated // Countryhumans RusAme

Chapter 2 - Play With Fire

America cursed under his breath as he made his was through the tightly-packed air duct system. It was actually larger than he expected, but it produced a lot more noise, thanks to the increase of acoustic resonance within the compacted area. Gunshots rang from underneath him. He clicked his tongue, knowing that it was useless to run anywhere.

With no other direction to go, America stopped in his tracks. Kicking the opening under him, he dropped down about ten feet to be greeted by fifteen officers, most of which, were wearing lab coats, while the rest, just wore regular police attires. They circled him in a haste, earning an eerie smile from the American.

"This is getting really old, guys. Aren't y'all supposed to be on my side?"

One of the officers, with badges to display his superiority in the military rank pulled up an AR-15 rifle. Even America looked surprised to see one of those used here—it being a business meeting area and all, and not some kind of army base. "We were given orders to contain you here, at all costs," he said, emphasizing the last part.

"How loyal of you to betray me," America simply replied, sarcasm underlining his statement.

America, personally, liked to keep it simple. In not even a second, he grabbed his small handgun from his back pocket and shot one of the officers to his right. A chunk of exasperated gasps and shocks erupted in the office-sized room, as people rounded up to tend to the wounded officer.

"Oops, my finger must've slipped," the country human mused. The rest of the officers took out their weaponry as well, in defense.

"Hands in the air!"

"Alright alright! You've got me!" America joked, a shadow forming underneath his brow line to cover up his true emotions. The urge to laugh kept kicking in, so he grinned to keep his vile emotions inside. Putting his hands up in the air, the U.S. held his handgun in one hand, while unraveling his other to reveal a small pebble-like marble to drop onto the ground.

After a few metallic bounces, the room was filled with dry coughs and gassy thick air. One of the officers could swear they heard the American country chuckle, "Syke," as it began clouding in the quarantine. The officials struggled to see the accused subject in the, now, musky room, and scanned the area with caution.

Kicking his way through the few guards, however, America finally made his way to the hallway that connected of the office cubicles into one sector of the building, like a thread conjoining a set of small decorations together.

He heard more officers on their way, and swiftly looked around himself for a way out.

"Somebody, stop him!"

America smiled, eyeing a perfect exit, and coughed up the word, "Suckers," silently to himself. Running up to a glass wall in front of him, he shot three times on each side of it, and watched as it easily collapsed. Must've not been such durable glass.

Some shouts proceeded to echo from the inside of the building, while America jumped from one patio to the next, spotting his car in the vacant parking lot in the process. Only now did he notice that it was already evening, and even took a moment to admire the beautifully colored pastel sky.

Hopping into his own car, he practically jammed the pedal, speeding away.

...

"Hello?"

The Brit answered the phone with a whining ache added to his tone. He knew the reason for this phone call and wanted no part in, what he referred to as, "the political garbage can". He's convinced that he's got enough of his own, as it is.

"Britain, sir, are you aware that you were not present at the emergency meeting called forth several hours ago?"

There it was. Now it was time to make up an excuse for it.

"Really? There was a meeting? No, I didn't know that." Every word in that statement was a lie. Britain was well aware of this so-called "meeting" put into play at one in the morning. He just simply didn't want to go. He payed the messenger to go back and say that he got lost and couldn't locate the British country, just to avoid the heap of a mess they labeled as "an emergency meeting".

The phone operator continued to explain, "Did you know that it was one of your sons who caused the uprising at lab twenty three today?"

"Which one?" the UK asked and then paused, pinching the bridge of his nose, "—wait... don't answer that."

"America is out of control. He ransacked the entire head corporate building and escaped through a glass wall on the west wing."

"Sounds like him alright," Britain sighed, "Also, kudos to however decided that glass would be the appropriate material for a hidden operatory."

"That wasn't our decision to make, sir."

"Of course it wasn't."

"We need a confirmation from you, saying, that you're unaware of the U.S.A's whereabouts."

"I don't know where he is," Britain said bluntly, careless of what was going on, "Honestly, can you people only call me when a real emergency happens?"

"With all due respect, sir, this is an international emergency that—" The UK hung up the phone, and hopelessly leaned against the wall, closing his eyes.

"Who was that?" his wife, France, asked. She stopped pouring tea, and gently placed the kettle she was holding onto a stand beside her.

"No one."

France raised a brow in thought and placed her hands on her hips. "Sounded important to me."

"Well, it wasn't. I'm not about to baby a full grown country for God's sake."

"It's America, isn't it?" she asked.

Britain nodded. "He's been causing nothing but headaches for me," he said, frustrated, and gripped onto the crest rail of a chair.

"He might just show up here, you know?"

The British country almost laughed. "After the incident with Canada? I doubt he'd want to see my face."