Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or any of its characters. I don't support Nazism, nor do I necessarily agree with any of the views and/or opinions expressed in this piece.

February 3, 1942

The outskirts of Berlin

How I hate coming home, Germany reflected with a degree of chagrin as he trudged through the thick blanket of snow covering the street in the early hours of night, his path lit by an almost full moon and several vibrant, deceptively cheerful city lights. I wonder what my boss wants this time?

Thinking about it made him inwardly cringe. The Führer had been getting frightening, even insane ideas as of late — more so than usual — and as he had made it perfectly clear that his plans had absolutely nothing to do with listening to the advice of his country, Germany would much rather leave him to his own devices and spend as little time as possible around him. After a heated disagreement a couple of months back about how certain people were to be treated and how the war was to be fought, the Führer had come to the conclusion that his country was a poor delusional soul who, because of his racial "pollution", didn't know what was best for himself. Since then he'd been willing to let Germany fight on the battlefronts to keep him out of his hair, but he still called on him from time to time whenever he suspected his life may be in immediate danger; to act as a guinea-pig for hidden traps, enemies, or poisons; or whenever someone was needed for a kamikaze mission.

Unfortunately, he'd learned to take advantage of the fact that Germany could not be killed or even seriously injured in the same way as ordinary humans right from the start. As he crossed the street, head down and right arm up in front of his face to shield against the oncoming wind and flurry of snow, the country's mind flashed with images of his boss pulling him in front of him to shield himself from gunfire, shoving him through doorways first to check for enemies, kicking a live grenade to him, forcing him to detonate a bomb while he was still in the impact-range, and commanding him to charge through a field of landmines on foot in pursuit of "critical war secrets" which turned out to be nothing more than financially and technologically infeasible Polish tank designs. Once, when he was in a particularly weird mood and the two of them were alone in his private quarters, he'd forced his own country to heil him exactly fifty times while he looked on from the comfort of his sofa and literally cried about how great Germany was, and how with him at the helm the two of them would be an unstoppable force that would conquer the world.

The things we countries have to put up with…

The building now loomed before him: a large brick structure whose windows spilled floods of lively yellow light onto the crunchy snow. To most well-adjusted Nazis, he imagined, it would seem a warm, welcoming sight; it looked like maybe a party or some other happy social gathering was going on inside. But to Germany the light seemed colder than the snow outside, and he wasn't particularly looking forward to having to go in there. He knew what his boss's idea of a party was: knew he liked to surround himself with all kinds of scum of possibly even more questionable moral fiber than Russia. To be fair not all high-ranking Gestapo and SS officers were cruel and utterly heartless rats, but it seemed Germany was always running into this type more than any other. The Führer's regime rewarded murderous, racist behavior and punished those who refused to betray friends, kill, and view the world through a particular ethnic lens.

With a sad, slightly-agitated sigh, Germany thrust the doors open and strode in, sweeping powdery snow from his green Waffen-SS uniform as he did so.

"Heil Hitler!" The overenthusiastic voices of around a dozen highly decorated and well-known Gestapo and SS greeted him. They heiled him heartily, some with more or less coordination than others, as not all appeared to be fully sober.

Germany repeated their greeting and salute, feeling a bit out of place.

"The Führer's been expecting you. Upstairs." One of the Gestapo pointed up, as though he imagined his brother-in-arms was blind and could not see the stairs ten feet in front of him.

Biting back a snide remark, Germany simply nodded and headed upstairs. Below, the room resounded with a din of laughter and lively chatter. At least they were enjoying themselves.

Once upstairs Germany found his boss's room with ease: the door was wide open and guarded by a serious-looking black-uniformed SS with a high-quality handgun. The arrival was at once announced, and the tired, heavy-eyed guard was quickly dismissed. He looked happy for the chance to leave his post.

"Ah, Ludwig," the Führer called out cheerfully, using the country's human name, "do come in."

What choice do I have? Germany thought. He entered slowly, his gaze sweeping over a carpet and furniture the color of old wine and an overly-elegant refreshment table which tried — and failed — to convincingly imitate mahogany. His leader rose from a chair near the fireplace just as his eyes settled on him.

He seemed to be in a good mood. That was encouraging. Maybe he just wants to check up on me.

"Close the door."

Germany did as he was commanded.

The Führer's relaxed, almost carefree demeanor began to melt away. He studied his country sternly, the beginnings of a frown tugging at the edges of his mouth. "Ludwig, aren't we forgetting something?"

Germany's right hand shot out. "Heil mein Führer!" he greeted fervently, simultaneously straightening into the most erect, respectful posture he could muster.

The Führer's almost frowning expression didn't improve. He continued to stand there, watching expectantly — no doubt with smug satisfaction — as his country struggled to guess at what more he wanted.

Damn…did he just extend the greeting? Germany didn't know what else to do. "Sieg heil! Seig heil! Sieg heil!" he tried, falling back on the familiar chant, re-saluting with each repetition.

This seemed to satisfy the Führer. He gave an appreciative nod and gestured towards the sofa, indicating that Germany should sit down. Germany did as instructed. "How are you feeling tonight?" His tone of voice was amiable — almost loving.

"About as well as can be expected." Germany uttered, careful to keep his own voice as quiet and unconfrontational as possible.

Why was his boss always asking him how he was feeling? They were in the middle of a war, and a mass genocide to boot. Of coursehe wasn't going to be feeling his best. Just because he was capable of healing inhumanly fast and could handle exponentially more pain and punishment than a regular human being didn't mean that he didn't feel bombs exploding all over him, or the pain of his citizens. He had explained this all to his Führer before, but it had fallen on deaf ears.

The saddest part was, his boss truly thought he was doing him a favor.

The Führer regarded him sadly, pinning the fierce blue eyes which studied him anxiously. "My dear Germany," he uttered with genuine sincerity, "As I have said before, this cleansing is for your own good. Yes, it hurts now, but in the end it will make you stronger. Purer. Think of yourself as a lump of carbon being crushed under great pressure and heat so that you may emerge as a diamond."

Easy for you to say, Germany thought bitterly, there is no way in hell you could understand what it's like to be a country and have a boss who decides that the best way to make you stronger is to kill a bunch of your citizens. And in the middle of a big war against major powers, no less. Don't spit in my face and call it rain. If it weren't for this sheer stupidity, I'd be feeling much better.Rather than lending voice to these sentiments, he remained silent. Let his eyes drop to the floor. The man standing before him was his boss, and only misery could come from upsetting him.

The Führer began to pace the floor in front of him. "I know that right now you think I am talking nonsense," he continued in that same, annoyingly-sincere tone, "but that is only because your blood still remains impure. You might look like an Aryan, but there are still far too many unfit within your borders. This will be rectified soon. In time you will be relieved of these growing pains, mature, and see that I was right all along."

That's a concept of maturity that scares the hell out of me. Germany sighed. "My Führer, with all due respect, don't you think that perhaps we should focus more on the war with the Allies than the Jews and every other harmless non-military group you don't happen to like? If we lose the war, it's going to be because of them. I recommend re-organizing the military and re-thinking your goals and strategies. You have troops where you shouldn't have them, and scattered too thin. You are making enemies where it is unwise to do so and completely ignoring opportunities to…"

"Hey, I have an idea!" the Führer interrupted, his forced cheer wavering under thinly-veiled anger. He came to a direct halt in front of the other German. "How about I be the Führer, and you be the country?"

Germany frowned. This was going to be a long night.