Intoxicated // Countryhumans RusAme

Chapter 3 - Don't Threaten Me With A Good Time

Whispers of gossip flourished throughout the tightly-packed meeting room. Some countries discussed America's "escape" in a vile manner, while others encouraged the importance of locating him as quickly and efficiently as possible. It would be an understatement to say that it was exhausting, listening to a bunch of debates questioning if the missing American country should be left to roam around while the drug was still in effect, or to detain him as quickly as possible and start the detoxification process.

There's a few wrongdoings in the second option, of course-the absence of certain guarantee that the procedure would even be successful in the first place, or that the latter effects are actually quite painful and discomforting to go through, are only the tip of the iceberg; so, before proceeding with this choice, all these negative repercussions should be first considered with caution.

Japan was questioned as well. The drug was examined thoroughly and determined to be too complex and uncanny to be deciphered properly. Japan shrugged in defense, claiming that she was just good at what she's known to be talented at. Of course, she helped out any other way she could, and explained that because she was so certain of her skills in the matter, she herself was surprised at the unexpected side effect of the drug.

The only humane option really left now was to use the drug the way it was meant to be used-with a compatible mate. Japan explained that if the drug is still perfected from her original "blueprint", any and all effects should be worn off with a kiss from the fated partner of the subject.

Any other person who should try to interfere with the subject will be hated by the intoxicated target, ten times more than they would hate an average stranger, making the process only ever more tedious than the countries would really want it to be.

They needed to find the person America is meant to encounter, and they needed to do it fast. Until America was back in office, his country shall remain on government shutdown, eliminating all government activity within the country.

Because of this, the country's government offered a pretty hefty amount for his finding which, consequently, caused the competition for his search to rise.

The two main competitors for the search were Philippines and Russia. They eventually decided to work together after falling into several dead ends. Both had the reward in mind, but only one had further feelings for finding the U.S.

Russia sighed, bringing his knees up to his chest. The plane flight to Nevada was taking much longer than he had expected, and Philippines, who was sitting right next to him, was too busy plotting points across a paper map of the U.S., crossing off all the places they had already checked, to be bothered by him.

"What day is it now, Phil?" Russia asked, calling him Phil after messing up his name enough times so that the Philippines made him.

"Ikalima (five)," he answered.

"So it's almost been a week, huh?"

Philippines was too busy to say anything back and just nodded whilst biting the tip of his pencil. The marks made no sense to him. America must be moving around the map, he thought to himself.

They knew for sure that he's somewhere in his own country. Each country has a device used to determine if a foreign country has entered their territory. Meaning, that in order to stay under cover, America had to stay within his own borders.

"So, where are you then?" Phillipines asked himself. He hated doing this mapping out stuff, being more of a hands-on seeker. The difficulty of this task, however, had left him no choice but to put in strategy in finding America. "Argh," he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why are we even bothering to look here? It's not like he's going to be in one of the most popular hot spots in the country." He leaned back and looked up at light above him. "He's probably out there hiding in some abandoned dumpster."

Russia chuckled, glancing towards the window.

"What? What's so funny?"

He faced him and explained, "If you think he would hide in a dumpster, Phil, I don't think you know America that well."

"You really think he's in Las Vegas?"

Russia shrugged. "That seems like the most probable place he'd be."

"That's ridiculous. How stupid do you have to be to go somewhere so flashy?"

Russia knew-America wasn't trying to run anywhere. He's just being fast on his feet. To catch him, they'd have to wait in Las Vegas for him to show up.

"He'll be here. We just have to be patient," Russia explained.

Frustrated, Phil closed his notebook shut and sighed hopelessly. It's not like there was anything else they could do.

...

A small vacant bar stood silently on the coast of New Mexico, quiet and without many residents. It reeked of alcohol and weed, but otherwise was a quiet, settling place. Only one small group of bikers sat alone in a booth, and a few other individuals were sprawled across the rundown bar. The static tv noise interrupted the American's thoughts as he turned his attention towards it.

"I-Its been... almost... a week since the shut down has been administered by presi...d...d...ent donald-" The static got so annoying, the owner shut the TV off.

Everyone in the bar was suddenly suprised to hear one of the bikers getting really riled up for no reason. "Damn this fucking government!" he exclaimed.

America laughed to himself, thinking the same thing, But hey, dude, at least you can say something like that here.

"It's almost 2019 and that shithead is still our president," the biker said in a rough and obviously drunken voice. He then aggressively glared at a smaller framed man sitting at the bar to the left of America. "You," he roughly called out to the single guy.

"Hm?"

"Did you vote for this guy?"

The single man looked irritated, and spewed out a "Yeah?" clearly drunk as well.

The biker jammed his fist onto the table and stood up. "Thanks to your dumbasses, my homie's now jobless." He was clearly about to get aggressive with the other guy, but some other men from the biker's groups pulled him back.

"Bro, chill."

"What the fuck's wrongs with you!?"

The owner calmly mumbled, "Take it outside, not in my bar please," while sweeping the floor on the other side of the counter.

The arguing was starting to get tiring after the first ten minutes. America left a minimal tip and left without notice. The heat outside was scorching hot despite it being late December. He slowly made his way towards his car.

Maybe he should go back to the Whitehouse.

He mused on the thought. Then, he wondered what his people would think if they knew that he left out of his own accord. The dissapointment felt alluring to the American for some reason. It's like the hate for his own country felt more appealing with each passing day.

He's noticed it too; the more he used to love something, the more it pissed him off now. "It's a nice change actually," he said, covering his eyes from the sun and looking up at the cloudless sky. "Maybe I should go somewhere more exciting while I still have the chance to."