America was just bits of UN pasted onto an empty canvas.
His thoughts, feelings, actions were simple hand-me-downs. Heirlooms he never wished to keep but were still placed in his hands since a young age.
It's as though the history of UN's shortcomings were a ghost that refuses to be exorcised, painting over America's own future with the hues of UN's past. Colors that should not match, but eerily look identical.
UN's swift change from calm to violent rage was also inherited.
The punch landed like a thunderclap, a brutal symphony of bone meeting bone, and the air crackled with the impact. The American's fist moved with a precision honed by malice, a forceful surge that sent shockwaves through UN's body. The stolen power resonated in the ruthless strike, a malevolent fusion of physical might and the cruel intent to dismantle, leaving the organization crumpled and gasping for breath as America reveled in the stolen strength pulsating through his veins.
Standing over the fallen figure, the American's face bore the marks of ruthless determination, a twisted blend of triumph and disdain etched across his features. His clenched fists, still vibrating with the force of the stolen power, mirrored the predatory glint in his eyes, as if he had seized more than just physical strength – a sinister satisfaction in robbing the other man of vitality and leaving him crumpled on the ground, teetering on the precipice of life's edge.
It was unnerving, really, witnessing himself fall into the pits wrath so easily, as if destiny is determined to replay a script he never wanted a part in.
As the moments ticked away, the vigor drained visibly from UN's face, each passing second etching weariness and surrender into the lines that deepened across his once vibrant features. The spark that once danced in his eyes flickered, replaced by a haunting emptiness as life seeped away, leaving a ghostly pallor in its wake. His movements, once determined and purposeful, slowed to a languid crawl, and the weight of impending departure hung heavy in the air, casting a somber shadow over the ebbing remnants of his fading existence.
America watched, a bittersweet symphony of emotions enveloped his heart, where the chords of grief harmonized with the sweet notes of joy, creating a melodic paradox that echoed the complexities of a moment both heartbreaking and beautiful.
He'll never understand what their relationship was.
"Oh shit," America was reminded of the Russian he took powers from, probably in the same state as UN was in at that moment. scrambling his way back through the hole in the wall, Canada close behind him, he witnessed the drained Russian. Eyes slowly drifting to something the living cannot see, America hastily returned his ability.
the Russian groaned in relief, muttering, "I was beginning to think you wouldn't come."
"Why would you think that?" America lightly flicked his partner on the head.
"'Finally fed up with me." Russia chuckled tiredly, "Is it over?"
"Well, not officially." the American admitted, "The guy's still outside dying and we have no clue where the rest of our friends are."
Canada discreetly peeked out of the hole in the wall.
With each labored attempt to rise, UN found himself ensnared in the unforgiving embrace of the snow-laden terrain, his strength draining away with every futile struggle. Exhaustion painted a wearisome portrait on his face, yet determination lingered in his desperate eyes. Fingers numbed by the biting cold clawed at the icy veil, seeking purchase to escape the relentless grip of the snow, a solitary figure battling nature's icy grasp in a silent struggle against the elements.
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Pangea Academy's Number Two! (BOOK 2)
Fanfiction[RUSAME/IN PROGRESS/ SEQUEL TO Pangea Academy's Number One!] The year passed quickly after the incident, things just seemed easy compared to what everyone had to go through. A new school year started and flew by just as fast as the last one, it was...
