Starting World War 3! (A Hetalia Fanfic)

Chapter 42 - The First

(A/N: Hoo, boy. Get comfortable, this chapter is a long one. Also! Have some chocolate nearby. You may very well need it.

Oh, I will apologize in advance for this chapter. It's like 90% references. The real issue here is how much I referenced 'The Princess and the Frog'. I watched it for the first time ever on the weekend and I've made references to it before for Francis and Lisa's conscious coupling [ha!] but I'm in love with it. It's so cute. And it's set in New Orleans and I made Lisa from New Orleans and Naveen has a French accent and there's a crocodile call Louis and England's a darn Facilier...the parallels are awesome. How was I not meant to reference it??)

The bombs were falling heavier that morning. A small break, a false hope and then the metal and gas mix would start pelting down like rain again. The city was reduced to rubble, there was not much else that could be blown up and blowing up the blown up seemed pointless so this attack was bound to stop soon. The state Atlanta was in was ridiculous. It was intriguing to see how quickly a city could fall. How would he find the little girl given the state of the city she represented? How would he find them all?

He had spent days searching and finally an anonymous tip-off had given him the inclination to go to Atlanta or rather what was left of Atlanta. He was not very fond of Georgia so he had not been to Atlanta often however, now that there was a lack of streets to navigate through he found a strange comfort in feeling as lost as everyone.

Whilst he felt bewildered by how much the city was levelled he also felt a sense of familiarity to the state the place was in. London, 1945, further back, Wipers, 1918 but specifically London. He had been more present in London, of course. It had not even been a century yet and already he was looking at the same damage he had seen too many times before. When would this cycle end? Never, with an emphasis on the word cycle in the question.

"We should be standing on Peachtree Drive according to Google." A comrade said as he pointed to his phone. "Actually, we are right in the middle of it."

"In is not a question of whether we are standing on Peachtree Drive but rather whether we are standing on the right Peachtree Drive. What is this one? The eighty-seventh?" England sighed, rubbing his temples in frustration, "And I would rather we navigate a map properly as opposed to using Google. It tends to be useless. It would have us think we are in the ocean."

"Ha." the lad chuckled, "There are only seventy-one Peachtree's. Maybe the 87th is in the ocean on Atlantis?"

"We don't have time for joking around." England muttered as he gave the younger man a side-glare, "We only have this small window of opportunity to find them. We are probably overtime right at this moment. The Russians; they will start bombing us any second now and China won't be here 'til four, maybe five?"

"Well we just have to find the house, right?" the man said, a hint of reluctance in his voice; an indication that he did not feel too comfortable questioning his own country. "We get them, we go."

"That is," England frowned, "if they are there. If not, I am afraid at the loss we may face for nothing. The sooner us Brits get out of here, the better."

"You'll be fine." The man spoke cheerily, a goofy smile set on his face which was a painfully stark contrast to their surroundings. "You all always bounce back."

"It is not me who I worry about." England pointed out, "In fact, I am he only one her whose life is not in immedi—"

"Mr Kirkland, sir?" the officer in charge of the mission interrupted. He was a tall man with dark brown hair. His face was always set in a stone expression as though it was too much effort for him to convey emotion. Maybe it was his way of coping? He was only twenty-three but already there was a prominent crease in the centre of his large forehead.