A/N: Sorry for the wait guys! Cross country's been tough (we haven't won any races yet...) and I have a bagillion things due for school. But it's here now!

Yup, the last chapter. The final act. Unless random peeps have ideas for drabbles or something for this. Anyway! It's not...as funny, I guess, as the rest, but it explains a lot! R&R bitte!

The chill of the night air smacked his face after the warmth of the bar. He blinked in the sudden darkness as his purple eyes adjusted form the soft lamps in the building to the natural reflection of the moon. An imaginary hand wrapped around his ankle and he stumbled forward, barely catching himself before he fell of the sidewalk. A car passed by, illuminating the tall man's flushed cheeks and glazed eyes.

Russia had been drinking.

It had been an extremely long day, made only worse by the world meeting held in-of all places-Moscow. If the cold wasn't the factor that made every country miserable and on edge, it was the cramped airplane service and daylong jetlag. The first thing that had come out of England's mouth was "Let's get this bloody meeting over with so I can get the crappy hotel and sleep."

The meeting started off well; Austria was discussing his economy's positive jump because of his chocolate sales compared to Switzerland (who forcibly disagreed that his chocolate was much better, even if he did use slightly less expensive ingredients) and next up had been Greece. He was asking for ideas to get his troubled economy back on track before he fell asleep.

After that, everything went to hell in a hand basket. It had started off with America, of course. It hadn't taken even two seconds for him to become bored. So his great idea was to shout at England. Who was right next to him. England then threw his hot tea onto the "blabbering git", and gave him an extensive lecture about being a gentleman. Until the blonde reminded him of the Brit's food.

The words that left England's mouth were anything but gentleman-like.

All the while, France was starring at America's stained dress shirt, that was, unfortunately, white. Switzerland, after less than a minute of putting up with his roaming blue eyes and "honhonhon" chant, pointed his gun at the French man's head and demanded that he shut up, least he wanted a hole in his throat. Liechtenstein tried to calm him down and Austria said that instead of guns, he should be putting more time into making chocolate worthy of being bragged about. Thus, another fight was created.

On the other side of the table, Spain was trying to convince Romano to come over for dinner later. After a twentieth rejection, he tried to persuade the stubborn Italian with a hug. You could hear Romano's "Bastard!" over even America. Italy was on Spain's side, asking his brother to join the Hispanic nation, then turned to Germany with a hurt look and asked why Germany never asked him to dinner.

Germany looked ready to flip the conference table over. One hadn't was rubbing his temple, the other's forefinger impatiently tapping the table top with enough force to create a dent in the maple wood.

And Russia was in the middle of this, smile plastered on his face as he tried to ignore the bickering and the shouting going on around hi, and glared at Lithuania as he was whispering to Latvia about breaking free of Russia. The large, heavily clothed nation could only think of all the ways he could make everyone shut up to stay seated.

He could easily break someone's fingers as a warning. Or a certain American's neck to quiet the room. He could always just walk out of the room-no one would notice in this chaos (except maybe Canada)-but his boss wouldn't be pleased. Russia sighed. Wasn't there anything that didn't involve him getting into trouble, that could stop the yelling, the annoyance, the pounding headache that hit his brain like a hammer with each heartbeat…

"Everyone SHUT UP!" Germany yelled, and a startled Italian wailed in fear. To Russia's disappointment, Germany did not flip over the table. "You are the most insolent, short-minded fools I have ever come into contact with! I'd rather sit in my own political meetings with ten Italys than be here." At that, Italy shot up from his chair and ran, crying, from the room vowing never to make pasta for Germany again. "Let's just get the damn meeting over with…"he finished with a quick glance at the door.

And that was when Russia decided it would be a great night to go drinking.

And that was how Russia ended up, several hours later, stumbling down the streets of Moscow in a vodka-induced drunkenness.

After narrowly missing the car, he decided that hailing a taxi in this state would only get him a trip to the hospital, which never ended well because of the extensive explanation about their health and the all the cover-up the government would have to do. So he kept to the inside edge of the sidewalk as he continued down the street.

He blinked as a large, low building came into view. Or was it two? His hand gripped the neck of an imaginary bottle of vodka out of habit at the presence of the unfamiliar place. It was only one story high and had no windows. There was only one stack on the roof from which vapor lazily curled out of. It didn't match any of the colorful, peaked structures the rest of the capital was made up of. In fact, Russia didn't even remember anyone telling him that they were going to build anything around here. Or maybe it was the wonderful numbness of the alcohol that was keeping the memory locked out of reach.

Either way, he went to investigate.

"R-Russian Factory-Ivan B-Braginsky Unit", he slurred. A factory? What was his name doing on a factory? Why was it here?

He shuffled along the path and pushed open the main doors.

It was quiet inside. The only light came from the occasional exit sign and floor lamp. Fuzzy thoughts churned through Russia's mind. Shouldn't the doors be locked, if no one was here? He decided, as a responsible country, that he would help his citizens and lock up the place for them! That would be wonderful of him, wouldn't it? He would need to check the factory first…and there was a flight of stairs leading to the factory floor around the corner there…

He nodded to himself and carefully descended the stairs. The bottom floor was better lit, and he scanned the room for movement. There wasn-

Wait. Was that…?

Russia wove between large pieces of machinery (only running into a few as the fingers of alcoholism clawed at his feet and caused him to stumble) until he came to a rack of clothes. He picked up the sleeve of a light brown coat. It was, he decided as he let the material slide between his fingers. They were his coats! He turned around and found several familiar scarves hanging on a wall dotted with pegs.

How much had he had drink again?

"Hold on, let me grab my jacket before leaving, alright?" Russia heard.

He turned to find the source of the footsteps as a worker walked through the main floor. It was a middle-aged man who rounded the corner. He was dressed in layers with a fur-trimmed hat wand a close-cut black beard. He carried a set of keys in one hand.

"Ah, Nikolai! I think Ivan was testing the units again and forgot to put them back," the worker said.

The man named Nikolai came to stand behind Russia. Russia wondered if Ivan was the guy who's name was on the factory sign.

"Oh, one escaped, huh? Alight, I'll get a box. You watch this one Alex."

Russia looked at the first man, the one with a beard, Alex. "You have my coats."

Alex nodded. "We do, in case you lose yours." His tone suggested that he was talking to a child, but the country thought it was the nicest thing to say. To have someone make more coats for him! No one had ever done anything like that before! And he didn't even know this man!

"Do you have vodka?"

Alex spotted Nikolai with a box and nodded. "Da, da, if you just come with me…"

That was the last thing Russia knew before he was trapped.

Russia had the worst hangover ever.

His head pounded fiercely and he couldn't see straight with all the spinning the world was doing. And he felt-lighted and his ears kept popping painfully. His stomach was queasy too. It felt like the ground was being pulled out from under his feet.

He rubbed his head, then paused. Was there a bump there? When had he hit his head? He tried to remember, but it only made the headache worse.

Which was strange. His hangovers never made his stomach sick. Or this tired. Like jet lag. He hated the time difference between himself and the other countries. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

And was startled away with the sound of a knock and a muffled shriek. Russia jerked in surprise and hit something hard.

His brow furrowed and he pushed against it. The wall gave way a bit. So he shoved once more and what sounded like cardboard ripped apart. He squinted in the harsh morning light. And then panicked.

Where was his house? Or the factory even? This was a new place, different and strange. It was a small room, with white walls, a couch and a TV. And a girl. A blonde girl starring up at him with terror in her eyes.

"R-R-R-Russia?" she squeaked.

"Da. And who are you?"

A/N: You likes? I did! Hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing!