Dro: Wrote this for the kink meme. Couldn't resist de-anoning for very long. Fail. Anyway, have at it. You know you all love my tremendously morbid one shots. Do read and review, if you please!

Summary: Loosely based off the "The Call of Duty" and "A Call to Arms" universe; an alternate scenario. America is falsely accused of shooting missiles at several countries, and Russia is credited as the one who stopped him. Except, it didn't quite happen that way. Unfortunately for America, no one believes his story, except a certain nation who has a certain suspicion. Like usual, it ends in tragedy.

Warnings: Violence

Disclaimer: Like, usual, Dro has not yet garnered the rights to APH, and probably never will.

It had been a game of chess. And he had a been a pawn. He supposed at one time in recent history, he had been a king instead, and if anyone had asked, he would have claimed himself the white. But now he was a fallen pawn, sitting in a cage, and he watched the other pieces—so ignorant, so oblivious—whisper amongst themselves about his fate. Everyone word ignited anger. Every glance ignited shame. Every whisper chipped another shard away from his quickly cracking heart.

It wasn't the trick that upset him. It wasn't the betrayal. It wasn't even the devastation that followed—though he would gladly kill himself a million times over, one death for each and every person that had died. What upset him most was that no one believed him when he pleaded to his allies for help. He had firmly believed his friends—his family, damn it—would support him, would trust him, would believe him, would help him. But everyone had recoiled when he desperately outstretched his hand.

He supposed, on some level, he could understand why.

The missiles had been American made. They had been launched from America soil. And there were few who were not directly or indirectly affected by their carnage. Despite the fact that his hand had never touched a key, despite the fact that no order had fallen from his lips, he knew he would never forgive himself for allowing this to happen. Perhaps, on some level, he thought, he deserved whatever punishment they would serve him under their false beliefs of his guilt.

Because he had let him win. And that was, in itself, an unforgivable act.

He stood in front of the little cage, watching with amused eyes, while the pawn that he had toppled sat listlessly inside, staring with a hint of dull anger in his haggard blue eyes at the tan-clad man in front of him. He showed no remorse. He had not the soul for it, nor the heart. He would freely admit that himself. He found this situation more amusing than anything else, though he was slightly disappointed that the former white king had been degraded so easily. It was a pity.

It had been a fun game while it lasted, and he doubted he would ever have another like it. For, surely, he knew, the little pawn would not be getting back up. Not after this. He liked to finish the games he started, and this one was not yet complete. It would be soon, he assured himself, and then he could reset his board with all new pieces. He smiled brightly.

"How do you feel today, America? They have been treating you well, da?" He said, back straight, eyes closed, lips stretched taught over his teeth. It was closer to a snarl than a smile, but Russia lacked the ability to tell the difference.

America said nothing back. He refused to say another word. He had said all he had to say, and no one had believed him, so what was the point in saying it again? The only one who knew the truth was the man who stood in front of him, the truth sealed behind the façade of integrity and compassion he had so gleefully displayed as he ran to warn the world what the American menace was planning. Sadly, of course, it had been too late to have much affect. America had already launched the missiles. And Russia had become the tragic hero forced to watch while a million died in flames. Most of them his own people.

But he hadn't let it stand! Oh no! How could the mighty, empathetic Russia let the evil America go unpunished? So he'd rushed back to the military base—he'd never left—and captured the menace of the world—he'd subdued America long before he'd ever pushed the button—and look! Look! Russia was a hero! The irony tasted of bitter metal in America's mouth. Or perhaps that was just the taste of his canine biting through the skin of chapped and broken lips.

Russia turned his back on the fallen pawn in the little cage and marched down the hallway toward the place where his friends and allies and sympathizers were hotly debating said little pawn's fate. It would be an amusing show of anger and disbelief and irrationality. Just the kind of show he loved to watch. He already knew the verdict. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. "Tsk. Tsk." He would say. "How the mighty have fallen." If only the world knew how many ways he meant that. And they would. Long, long after he'd packed this game away and won several more. Too many for them to ever slow him down. Far too many to stop him.

He'd won the most important game already.

The rest were just for fun.

He felt like a trapped chess piece, surrounded by stronger enemies, with no escape in either direction. They wouldn't listen to his voice to begin with. He was shy and calm and quiet, and thus, he was ignored. But he wished—for God's sake, for once!—that they would just listen to him. Because something was not right, and they just could not see it. They were all blinded by rage and shock and confusion. They wouldn't listen to him at all. Some would scream to execute his brother immediately. Others wanted life—an immortal life—in solitary. And others wanted complete dissolution of the US.

And none of them would listen to what he had to say.

So he'd tried them one by one instead of in their massive, messy, fragile-emotionally-wrought throng of screams and shrieks and yells and curses. He'd tried his papa first, only to hit an unexpected wall. "Alfred deceived us," papa had said. "He was not the man I thought he was." He'd tried to convince the Frenchmen he was wrong, that there was something else going on beneath the surface. But his papa wouldn't have it. "You saw it yourself. They were launched from his soil, using his own security code." But someone could have stolen it, right? "Who could have done that? It's plain as day what happened. He tricked Russia into leaving his homeland and then launched an attack on it while it was at its most vulnerable. He's despicable. He's…there's no word for such disgust. Mon Dieu. And all this time we've thought him such a hero."

Canada was still convinced he was.

He'd tried England next. The response was different. But the outcome was the same. England was drunk. Always drunk now. Babbling on about America's childhood. Pleading for time to be reversed. Begging a God he didn't believe in—because he had told Canada that long ago—to go back and change America into something that wasn't a monster. A monster. Was that really what England thought? Canada had his doubts. He was sure he knew the truth. England could not handle the idea of a subtle betrayal, of America slipping right through his fingers. So he would warp his image of the boy he'd loved forever, claim that he had been deceived all along by those ambitious blue eyes.

Just to make himself feel better.

The other nations had garnered much the same results. All felt betrayed. All were hurt. All were confused. And none would listen to his suspicions. And in the end, there was only one person left to voice them to—and one to make sure never heard them. So he slipped out of a conference one night—unnoticed; they never noticed him—and headed down the stairs, down the hall, to the dimply lit cell where his brother was being held. He could swear in all the time he'd stood in front of it, watching Alfred for a response, that his brother had never moved.

But tonight, he did.

Tonight, he spoke.

"They're going to convict me, you know."

He knew.

"They'll probably execute me. They can't destroy my country. It's too valuable. So they'll kill me off to make another America."

He knew that too.

"Tell me the truth," he said.

And America instantly knew that his brother was the beam of light from heaven that he'd been waiting for all along. So he told him. Everything. From the first handshake as Russia stepped off the plane, to the tour of the military base, to the drawing up of the initial agreements of a new and revolutionary alliance that would drastically decrease the hostilities between them. He told of the moment that Russia had punched him in the face—which he'd claimed to have done much later, as part of his "heroism"—and knocked him out and tied him up and later made him watch while he used America's own code to launch America's own missiles. The ones that killed off nearly a million of Russia's own citizens.

And Canada stood there and listened and nodded.

And he knew what he had to do.

It was two days after his fate—he'd known it all along—had been confirmed to him. They would hang him for this—sweep him under the carpet like a useless ball of dust and grime. They wanted him gone, and they'd have him gone. And that was all there was to it. So he sat and waited, wondering who would return to say their goodbyes. He could honestly hope the answer was "no one." He'd had enough of their insults. Enough of their lack of trust. He would much rather die than live with that surrounding him for what could have quite possibly been eternity.

Eternity. He supposed he didn't have that to worry about anymore. He would not live to see it pass him by. He found himself oddly calmed by that fact. Eternity was terrifying and uncertain, vast and endless. Death was a surety, an absolute value. Eternity could drive you insane. But in death, you were at peace. At least, if the stories were telling the truth.

Then again, he really didn't know what to think about stories anymore. Too close to lies.

Canada placed the envelope on the old, worn oak desk, and backed silently out of the room. By the time the man sleeping at it had awoken, it would be far too late to stop him, whether he believed the evidence or not. From there, he went down a set steps, out a door, into an awaiting cab, down a street, and arrived back at the facility where his brother waited on death row. He didn't bother asking for entrance. He'd had it approved long ago, and they let him in without question. It was their mistake. They were too trusting of those who could weave good lies. If only he could say his fellow nations were not the same…

The key in his pocket burned hot, and he took a deep breath he stepped off the last stair and started his trek toward the end of the hallway, where he knew his brother would be awake, staring out at the wall, silent and solemn, as he had been every time Canada had seen him for the last several weeks. And so he was today, exactly the same. Until Canada himself came into view. He had not told America he was coming tonight, the night before America's final sunrise. In fact, his brother had specifically told him not to. Which was all the better. Because it meant anyone who had been watching his brother would not have the slightest clue what he was planning.

He unlocked the door and pulled it open, freeing the bird from his cage. But America did not move. He was too stunned, too confused, too resigned to what sunrise had meant to him up until this point. "W-What are you doing?"

"We're leaving. Come on." He entered the cell, crouched down, and pulled his brother from his place in the chair. America's knees popped and cracked, as if he had never moved from that chair in the entire duration of his confinement. Canada took both his brother's hands in his own and pulled him into a brief, chaste kiss. "You're not staying here a minute longer. And if things go my way, you'll be a guiltless man by morning."

"But…how…?"

Canada could only smile. "I have my ways."

And then he could only fall.

America caught him in his arms, the shot still ringing in his ears, the sound of the cell door closing ringing out behind him like the siren of a nuclear strike. America screamed. Canada wanted to as well, but he found his lungs would not even breathe, much less allow him to scream. The taste of bitter blood filled his mouth, poisoned his tongue, sickened his stomach. His brother held him tightly, sobbing and crying, his voice cracking.

Someone laughed.

Canada knew who.

And America did too.

Green eyes blearily blinked awake, landing firstly on his dirty window that desperately needed cleaning. He hadn't cleaned in weeks. He probably wouldn't for weeks yet. Especially not after today. He glanced at the clocked. It beamed a bright red 4:30 AM at him, and he wondered just what it was that awoken him. Tired eyes—tired in many more ways than one—roved about the room, searching for the cause of the interruption of his brief period of rest. The only out-of-place object he could locate was a large envelope on his desk. An envelope that had not been there before.

He picked the heavy envelope up and broke the loose seal, a video tape sliding out of it and landing in his hand. Confused and dazed, he rolled over to the dusty TV in the corner of the room and inserted the tape into the ill-used, half-broken VCR he'd gotten years and years ago as a last minute birthday gift from a half-drunk France. At a push of a few buttons, the tape was on and rolling fast. And with every second of blurry footage and muffled audio, every fear he'd imagined was realized over and over and over. He'd thought he'd experienced them the moment the bombs had fallen. But those had been just a taste of what he felt now. Just a taste.

And this was every drought of poison that could ever be shoved down his throat.

He was out of his chair, his office, and into his car into less than half a minute. He was down the road in less twenty. He was in the jail in less than twenty five. He had whipped out his handgun, rushed down the stairs, and hit the floor running, just as he heard a shot.

Followed by another.

America was motionless several seconds before he fell, his heart quickly pouring its contents of red across his chest, across his brother's already crimson one, and down onto the floor. And then he did fall. His back hit the cold, hard floor, and he stared up at the ceiling in shock. Until a soft voice in his ear roused him.

"I'm sorry…" Canada whispered with his quickly fading breaths.

"Don't be…" Was all he could whisper in return.

"My apologies for the abrupt ending." Russia smiled. "But I had a sudden thought. It would be so much more dramatic if the two brothers both died in a tragic murder-suicide, da? Much more dramatic than running away. A much better ending to this game we have playing, da, Canada? America?" He never stopped smiling.

Neither brother said a word. Neither could. Canada used the last of his strength to cling to his brother. America used his to do the same. They took labored breaths as they both bled out, and neither bothered to watch as the gun left Russia's gloved hand and landed on the floor next to them. Neither cared at this point. Russia smiled a bit more, then he laughed, then he turned.

Another shot rang out.

Russia stumbled backward, hand flying to his chest as the blood rolled down his dark uniform. "Ah…?"

England stood before him, gun raised, eyes wild. "You…all this time…you…" He eyed the dying boys just out of his reach, just beyond his help. He'd failed. He'd failed them both. He'd failed the world, and he would feel it for the rest of his life. But if there was one hint of retribution that he would gain, it would be to rid the world of the cause of its pain.

Russia fell to his knees.

"You deserve death."

Russia smiled.

"Perhaps. But by sending me there, you only assure America and little Canada and I will get to keep playing our games together."

England sneered.

"You will not be going to the same place they are."

Russia laughed, half-coughing as spots of blood dotted his lips.

"Oh, are you so sure? You would be surprised to know what lengths we all have been through to play our games. How many times we've all been whores, how many men we all have killed, how many bribes, how many—"

"Shut up!" He screamed. The boys—his boys, his dying boys—did not deserve this at the moment of their deaths. "This isn't a game, Russia! This has never been a game!"

Russia laughed again, the sound echoing down the hallway.

England felt it as his boys died, left this world together, and thought—not briefly, not briefly at all—of turning the gun on himself.

"Do not be silly, comrade England. It has always been a game." He fell backward, landing roughly on the floor, his hat rolling away, through the bars of Alfred's cell, into the brothers' shared pool of blood, where it came to rest, irrevocably stained. "But…you must…understand." He laughed—wheezed—blood dribbling down his lips. "You see…the games of kings are always subtle. And it is never until the end that the players realize it was even a game to begin with." He chuckled, choking on his own blood. "But that is what makes it fun, da?"

Dro: And yet again, I have killed off all your favorite characters! -sigh- I'm just a terrible person, eh?