World Conference Clean-Up

Chapter One- The Start of a Nightmare

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

Farley Dwain Gibson would describe himself as a rather intelligent type of individual. He was a jack-of-all-trades kind of guy; he could fix a faulty car engine, gut a fish in less than 10 minutes, play the drums, and deal a hard game of poker—all that good stuff that helped him get around with odd jobs here and there. So if he was so intelligent, why could he not for the life of himself figure out what on Earth he had gotten himself into?!

I mean, Farley was used to cleaning up messes that little kids made, having been a part-time babysitter at 16. He had learnt to watch kids like a hawk and occupy them with enough entertainment so they wouldn't create a mess. He had babysat so much it had become second nature to him, as he had more training with his little sister, who at the time, was a petite little thing at 5 years old.

But this—this was just out of his comfort zone. No, this was about twenty galaxies away from his comfort zone. Nothing in the whole world could have prepared him for something like this.

Farley stood at the entrance of an enormous room populated with men, women, heck, even children, who were doing everything but work, which is what they were supposed to be doing. Papers were scattered everywhere, various beverages spilled, even the massive round table everyone was supposed to be sitting at had somehow been split right down the middle.

He could not believe this. Grown men and women were fighting amongst themselves being unruly and unprofessional. Why, why, WHY on Earth did he take this job? Farley was NOT used to cleaning after adults who created this level of chaos. Being forced to clean up after grown adults (and some children in the mix) at 48 years old was not on his bucket list. But oh no. That wasn't even scratching the surface of his never ending nightmare. But to get the full scope of the matter, it'd be better to start at the beginning.

It was approximately three months ago since Warren Nash, the president of the World Conference building in New York City had hired him as the Head Janitor.

Farley had not expected to be hired so quickly. In fact, he wasn't even applying for a job there. Initially, he had been called in to fix the air conditioning, and Mr. Nash, seemingly impressed at the short amount of time that it had taken him to fix the issue, deemed him worthy of being a worker there, and hired him right on the spot. And seeing as the pay was considerably higher than of his own salary as a repairman, he grabbed the opportunity to live a more comfortable life.

After filling out the proper paperwork, he was propelled straight into his first week of work. He was given a tour of the whole building, got introduced to all the other workers like Haley Gardiner, the lovely 23 year old receptionist, Carl Samuels, the head chef, and Mr. Nash's wife Judith. They were a delightful group of co-workers, and Farley was happy. But that was before he met them.

When he first saw the group of representatives, Farley thought it was rather odd that governments of countries from all around the world would send such a youthful group of ambassadors, but he assumed that the governments knew what they were doing. He wondered if they were doing an experiment on national relations with young adults. But that was only his speculation.

The representatives were all polite and courteous when they were introduced to him, waving politely at him from their respective seats at the round table they sat at. It was all fine and dandy in the beginning. Except for that little nagging feeling in the back of his mind that something was just not right.

It would start off with little things, just small insignificant things that he'd brush off as things that were just coincidence. But slowly, it began to become a reoccurring pattern. One that Farley could no longer pass off as a coincidence.

Every single time there was a World Conference meeting, there would always be these 'incidents', as he put it. In this one corner of the table, there'd always, always be traces of pasta there after a meeting had taken place. Be it marinara sauce or tomato sauce, it'd be there for sure after a meeting. Farley thought that it might have been the ditzy Italian representative (the Northern Italian one, why there were two representatives, he had no idea), but he reprimanded himself for even thinking that, as he felt that he was being too stereotypical. It could have been anyone, after all. It wasn't only Italians who ate pasta, after all.

And then there were those odd occurrences that happened every now and then. Some representatives liked to come early in the morning, when he was preparing the room for the meeting, like the serious German representative, Ludwig or the British representative Arthur Kirkland.

Ludwig, as he called him (mainly because he couldn't make out his last name on his nametag; blasted eyesight!) was what you'd call a typical German. Blond with blue eyes, he was very muscular, as well as intimidating at first. As a work oriented man himself, Farley looked up to Ludwig, for he was a hard working man.

Mr. Kirkland seemed to be a rather mild mannered British gentleman, as he called himself. His messy blond hair and wise emerald eyes seemed to say otherwise though, but Farley brushed it off. However, Farley could not help but notice his enormous eyebrows, which he initially thought were fuzzy caterpillars. And like seemingly all the other representatives, who all carried some type of stereotype, Mr. Kirkland was never without his morning cup of tea.

To be honest, he rather liked those two men. They were both very well mannered men; very professional, it seemed. Ludwig didn't really like to engage in conversation much, as he always seemed to be busy with work in some way or another, but Mr. Kirkland was always up for a conversation that involved the paranormal, Shakespeare, or essentially anything to do with British history.

While Farley set up the projector (and room in general), he could not help but overhear some very odd conversations and see some very odd sights as the many representatives trickled into the room. He once saw Vash Zwingli, the representative of Switzerland, take out an MK-47 when the French representative not-so-subtly flirted with the representative from Liechtenstein, Lilli Vogel, who was apparently also his adoptive little sister. He's seen a representative (whose name he could never seem to remember) carry around what looked like a live polar bear, and another girl carry around a swordfish.

There was also this one incident in which he was called in to fix the sink in the bathroom. It turned out that the Russian representative, Ivan Braginsky, somehow broke a sink with his bare hands and pulled out the water pipe to replace his usual water pipe which he claimed to have forgotten to bring that day. Farley had never even seen him holding his water pipe. Ever. Yet Mr. Braginsky claimed that he usually brought one in every day. How was this even possible? Wasn't there a ban on weapons here?

Heck, he's even heard the strangest conversations the world may never know, but the one that takes the cake went something like this:

Denmark Rep: "…Alright, so that's the plan!"

Brother of Ludwig: "Aww yeah! Now that little aristocrat will have no choice but to bow down in the face of my awesomeness! He'll never see that bucket of maple syrup I got from Birdie coming!"

Spain Rep: "But what if he sends Elizabeta after us like last time? Ay, my head still hurts from her frying pan when I think about it…"

Denmark Rep: "It'll be fine! Besides, if she does come after us, then we'll just pin it on Gilbert like last time!

Brother of Ludwig: "Hey! You're the one who came up with this idea in the first place!"

And as planned, when the Austrian representative opened the door into the room, he was promptly doused in maple syrup, forcing him to skip most of the meeting in an attempt to wash the syrup out of his (once) crisp suit.

As the months passed, the incidents began to get more frequent as well as more violent. Fights broke out during every single meeting. It was small fights at first, but then got bigger and bigger. Even Mr. Kirkland lost his credibility as a gentleman after he gave into his anger and assaulted Mr. Francis Bonnefoy (French representative), multiple times during a course of two weeks.

But this one, the one he faced right now, was beyond his scope of imagination. The whole room was a complete mess. Representatives stood around awkwardly, seeing as they couldn't sit down because the most of the chairs had been destroyed from being tossed around so much. Shame hung over them like a cloud. "What in tarnation is going on here?" Farley asked as calmly as possible.

Mr. Kirkland was the first to speak. Clearing his throat he began, "Well, you see, ah…Am-Alfred here," he shot a glare at him, "Got into a fight with Braginsky and, uh, things got a little out of hand…"

Currently Alfred F. Jones, the American representative, was being held down by the German and Turkish reps as was Mr. Braginsky, by the Swedish and Danish reps. Mr. Jones was struggling to squirm out of their grip, unlike Mr. Braginsky, who merely stood there watching him struggle.

Farley gaped at the sight that lay in front of him for a few more seconds, then spun on his heel and retreated out the door. He went straight to Mr. Nash's office and knocked politely on the mahogany door.

"Who is it?" a voice inquired.

"It's Farley, sir. I have something to report to you."

"Hmm…you'd best come in, then."

Opening the door, he was greeted with a rather elegant room. Velvet drapes covered the window halfway, making the room dimly lit. A laptop was situated on top of a desk that was covered with stacks of paper. Mr. Nash sat behind the desk, peering over his spectacles at him. "Well, you don't have to stand to talk to me, Have a seat," he insisted, gesturing to a plush armchair that sat in front of the desk.

As he settled into the comfortable chair, his boss spoke once more. "What do you want to report to me, Farley?"

"Sir, the representatives have completely ravaged the conference room. They were fighting."

A pause. Shuffling his papers, Mr. Nash shook his head, "I see…I was wondering when they'd lose control. The temper bottle was bound to pop one of these days."

Confusion flooded his brain. Did…did Mr. Nash know all along and not tell him? What was with all these people here? What in the world was going on? "Could you please tell me what is going on, sir?" Farley asked hopefully.

Mr. Nash sighed. "My apologies, Farley. I can't. The government restricts people who don't have the proper authorization from telling others the full story."

"But, sir—"

"Don't worry Farley. You'll come to understand everything eventually," interrupted Mr. Nash. "All in due time. Now off you go."

And that was it. 48 year old Farley D. Gibson was forced to leave the office more confused than was before he had gone in. Mental assault was not something he enjoyed. This was not something he enjoyed. Somehow international governments were involved in this, and now he was being pulled into this mess. He was not being paid enough to deal with this. Why did the world hate him so much?

Suddenly he heard a voice coming out from the door behind him. "Oh, and you'd best get to work cleaning up that room! That room won't clean itself!"

Author's Notes

This is my first story, so if there are any mistakes, please tell me!

For any suggestions or comments you may have, please leave a review!