Prussia laid on his stomach on top of the roof of a broken and abandoned home. His finger rested lightly on the trigger of his rifle, set on a stand just barely hanging over the edge. Below him, gun shots echoed through the streets of the empty city, men's shouts ringing through the air. Above him, as thick, cold rain fell from the fire-lit sky, and behind the black clouds of ash and smoke and storm, planes could be heard, crashing through the wind, as bombs were dropped on the ruins around him.

And yet he was still, unmoving, unblinking, the only sign that he was alive being the movement of his finger, the crack of the rifle, the dead soldiers scattered through the battle field, and the screams of soldiers yelling.

"Sniper on the roof! Move faster, German sniper on the roof!"

Prussian sniper, he corrected them silently. Gone was the laughing, sarcastic, egotistical Gilbert Beildschmidt, replaced by a soldier buried beneath thousands of years of abandonment hidden by an act of narcissism. The only ones who saw him this way, in his true state of mind, were his allies, those who served beneath him, and those who died at his hand.

His crimson eyes were trained carefully on the scope, through which he surveyed the frigid wreck and ruin, and the fighting that raged on every side. His men were striking back at the invaders with a strength he was proud of, but even still, they were losing.

Prussia sighed, wincing a bit each time one of his men fell, and ignoring the lingering feeling of having his people fleeing through their own countryside to escape the Soviet's attack. His free land of innocents had already been scarred and lost to the red army, and now his beautiful city, Königsberg, was falling.

And it hurt.

He reached for his radio, ignoring the snaps his tired and chilled bones made as they moved from the position they'd been in for hours. Without tearing his eyes from the scope, he quickly made the message to his brother once again.

"West, come on, you promised me reinforcements hours ago. Where are you?!" He hissed in to the receiver, swallowing the blood he tasted in the back of his throat.

"I'm sorry bruder, I'll try to send troops to you when I can, but for now, you're on your own." Came the hollow, static filled reply from miles upon miles away where Germany was losing the war, and knew that there would be no reinforcements ever to come aid his brother.

"Verdammt!" Gilbert muttered to himself, dropping the radio back on to the rain slick ground beside him, and returning his attention back to the battle.

Smoke drifted between cracked buildings, making things even more difficult for him to see his targets. He was tired, and sore, and scarred beyond belief from each bomb that struck his country, and from the years of war he'd lived before this.

One by one he picked off more and more Red Soldiers, never missing his mark, and pretending not to feel the pain of a dying nation. He couldn't join in the combat below, he had his orders, and if he were to be wounded now, it as unlikely he would heal in time to lead his men and help Germany win the war. But he wished he could. He hated to not be there fighting side by side with his men.

A blast of fire exploded a hundred feet or so above his head, knocking his vision off the scope, and leaving a dull ringing noise in his ears. He closed his eyes, his mind struggled to stabilize itself. Finally he returned his gaze to the crosshairs, and nearly gasped when he saw who they nearly lined up with.

Far below him, in the shelter of a fragment of a building, giving orders to a groups of soldiers, stood Soviet Russia. Prussia faltered for a moment before slightly adjusting himself so the center point just between the blonde's eyes were lined perfectly with the "X" of his gun.

And he stayed that way. His finger laid still against the trigger, not moving an inch, as in his head a miniature war raged. He was set to shoot the country who had caused him and his people and his brother so much pain. So why couldn't he just do it...?

Prussia let out a long, slow breath, icy mist forming from where his breath touched the air. Suddenly a soldier beside Russia looked up, caching a glance of the barrel of the rifle, and quickly saying something to his commander and country.

Russia glanced up, staring directly at the Prussian. Red met violet across the battlefield, neither of them moving an inch. Ivan, as he preferred to be called, opened his arms slightly, silently daring the other to fire, to shoot him like he so desired to.

He ever so slowly lowered his hand from the rifle, and very calmly stood up. His drenched uniform clung to his body, splatters of dark red layering places where shots and stabs had yet to heal. He was in pain, and he was weak, and he could not hurt the country that caused it. He nodded silently to Ivan, who remained staring at him with a small smile, before he turned his back and began to walk to the ladder down, where he would order the retreat of his men.

He barely had time to here the echoing crack of a pistol being fired, followed swiftly by a familiar voice yelling "Nyet!"

Prussia fell, as another wave of bombs pounded down upon his city. He barely caught himself on his hands before he forced himself to roll over, and clutch the bleeding hole in his chest. It was a perfect shot, going in to his back and straight through his heart. As his vision narrowed he caught a glance of the no longer smiling face of Russia.