"Adhesion to one idea is monomania; too few, slavery."~ Christian Nestell Bovee

Fog was rolling in at an alarming rate, making the air thick and heavy. Violet eyes whipped around, back and forth, looking for any semblance of alarm, of danger, of...excitement. He smiled at the prospect, momentarily allowing himself to slip into the pleasant dream-like notion of fighting, of adrenaline coursing through his veins at dangerous volumes, of his head feeling drunk on the actions of displaying his obviously magnificent (and he was certain), unrivaled possession of power.

Then his moment on high came crashing back down to reality (as it invariably did)...the horrible yet undeniable fact that had come to face him every day of his waking existence: that there was only one person against whom he could ever feel the true extent of excitement he so very dearly craved. No, he knew it was more than a mere "craving" he was feeling, for that word implied too many things that were trivial or earthly. No, what he felt ran much deeper than anything that one could simply "crave." What he wanted, what he needed, to him, was a matter of life and death.

And he would do beyond anything to secure it, that sense of power, of ultimate victory, of elitism, of unbridled and unquestionable pride, confidence, solidarity, assurance...of self.

Soviet felt the bile rise in his throat at the thought. The mere idea of him, The Soviet Republic, even tolerating the notion that he needed someone else in order to prove his worth, and a lowly child at that...But over the years he had grown enough to at least accept this about himself. He, despite knowing that he was veritable Leader of his late people and the chosen and all-powerful elite amongst the other Powers, needed the strength,(or at least the personally-administered elimination of said strength), of another such as him...

Such as America...

But if that is what it took to find the very thing he had been searching so long for, so be it. He had seen endless displays of Alfred's incalculable strength and he had, again and again, felt not only the pang of jealousy but the overwhelming feeling of awe at his fellow Nation. Not only had the once-child managed to ultimately surpass every opponent he had ever faced, but he had done it with nothing but Capitalist blood. And if he could do it...

Soviet felt the all-too familiar stirring within his chest, the one that normally followed this particular train of thought, the same one he always avoided with dogged determination, the hint within his...he refrained from using the word 'subconscious'...that insisted he admit that he was only acknowledging half of the facts, that the power was not the only thing about Alfred he found so inescapable...

He could suddenly see him, the happy-go-lucky fool, that face that had the widest array of emotions Soviet had every seen in his entire life, emotions that could change in the blink of an eye should the situation call for it, and his anger began to sear again. As long and as hard as Soviet had pondered at Alfred's incredible base of power, he had come to ponder even harder at Alfred's seemingly natural lack of concern regarding it. Unlike himself (or any full-developed Nations for that matter), America, while retaining his inherent Heroic sense of pride, had the ability to disregard his strength's importance in lieu of other things. More maddening yet, he had used this venue to gain something even greater than prowess, something seemingly more valuable (if that was possible)...something Soviet had yet to even fully comprehend...

...Something else Soviet found himself needing...

As per usual, this line of thought left him baffled, enraged and, ultimately, disgusted. Soviet shook his head, attempting to rid himself of the thoughts that plagued him so, and he began to slowly return to the fog he had been in before.

It was then that he felt it, that distinct and endless Superpower signal, that he had so eagerly engrained into his senses, had so often found himself searching for even when he was not meaning to, not wanting to, and it brought the heady rush back full force. He couldn't bring himself to believe this. After years of contemplation, of wondering, of needing this kind of moment only to be left with just more wondering and needing, he was finally sensing the source of his potential freedom...and it was coming to face him. It was all too unreal. His limbs began to tremble with anticipation. Normally he would have felt ashamed for allowing himself to be this affected by something as negligible as another World Leader, but for this, Soviet would let it go. He could stomach a bit of weakness such as that if it came at the bargain of resolving his suffering.

Before he knew it, he could see the emanating ball of Sunshine, that was America, approaching him and the face from his dreams looking ahead towards him.

Soviet took no time in running forward, exceedingly eager to get this started for fear that it'd all vanish should he allow it the opportunity.

In an instant, they were face to face, the Land of the Free and Home of the Brave, standing before Mother Russia.

America paused, silently examining him with those eyes and their endless array of awareness. He then nodded, whether out of an unspoken agreement of some sort or a simple acknowledgment, Soviet was unaware. But Mother Russia could not miss the suggestion of sadness in those eyes as well.

And that alone brought his blood to a boil.

Without allowing himself to think any longer, he brought his fist back with a powerful punch. America dodged it easily, as expected, and Soviet proceeded with another, then another. As the all-too-familiar anger set in, he moved faster, his kicks and punches gaining more and more influence. It wasn't long before his wits kicked into motion and he realized that America was blocking his every assault but without returning efforts of his own. This only served to be more maddening. Soviet-made one particularly fierce blow and used the force of America's vigorous block to push himself back a distance. He eyed his adversary intensely.

'Why, America?' His voice seeped across the distance between them. He growled, about to ask the other why he was not trying, about to demand that he give this his all...about to beg for him to end this! Soviet could feel his anger slipping. His dream was so close, his freedom so potent he could taste it...and yet America, the only one capable of bestowing it, was still thwarting him even now. Soviet began to shake with unrestrained rage. He moved to grasp the collar of the other's characteristically neutral attire and shake some desperate sense into America's head when that soft yet strong voice brushed past him.

'It won't help you.'

Soviet did not recognize America's lips as moving, but he heard him as clear as day. He also heard the tone that accompanied those words. He faltered.

But...why?

For that moment, Soviet felt at a loss to his rival's...what was that? Pity? No, he realized. A sadness though it was, he knew that America was not pitying him. If there was any credit to the Leading Superpower's name, he had never expressed true, depreciating pity towards America, not even after having heard the Slavic's excruciatingly pathetic pre-fall confession during the Revolution. And that in itself served to perplex him, for, amidst their ongoing battles (whether in opposition or in tandem), he had seen America convey towards many a foe, such an unsettling demonstration of sympathy. It was enough to make any true Power cringe. How he, himself, had managed to escape that gut-wrenching sentiment since their first meeting so long ago. was beyond him. But he could not deny that he was glad for it.

No, it was not pity that Soviet felt, but something he could not discern. What was it?

His fingers balled into tight fists and he gritted his teeth. His mind shifted back into overdrive and insisted it did not matter what America was thinking. He was here, he could finally be defeated and Soviet's wretched self-anguish would finally end. He thrust forward again, intent on dislodging his fellow Nation for good if only it would reconcile his ever torturous mind! He moved faster and faster, disappearing and reappearing, throwing blows as he did so. Before long, he was even surprising himself at how quickly he was traveling. He was now certain that he was gaining a speed beyond that of any other adversary he had ever encountered. America, as before, avoided each charge with numerous blocks. He was even beginning to put more energy into his defensive maneuvers, but he still did not move to advance against Soviet.

Finally, Soviet upped his pulsing energy and began a new, rather desperate wave of strikes, allowing all of his frustrations, fears, and sorrows to pour out through his movements. He felt America increase his own speed to a new brink, face beginning to harden with what looked like unease. Soviet grinned. America was finally being forced to endeavor at a proportion worthy of his own tremendous power level; he was being pushed to his limits in terms of efficient defense. Much more, and he'd have to fight back!

In one slim moment, Soviet saw an opening and dove, his fist flashing even faster than he could see, and made contact with America's jaw. The young nation's head snapped to the side with a painfully discernible crack, and speckles of blood were forced from his throat. Soviet hesitated, partially shocked himself, and waited for his opponent to collect himself. The other left his head down, but brought the back of his hand to his mouth, looking dismally at the blood that now spotted his skin. He then brought his gaze up to meet Soviet's, his eyes still uncertain, two fighters remained for what seemed an eternity, each taking in the other. Then, as if in answer, those questioning eyes shifted from uncertainty to a chilling sense of acceptance.

Soviet felt his pulse race at that and pulled himself back into his offensive stance. America, to his excitement, did the same. Soviet let out a ferocious scream, focusing all of the energy from his core into a bright, physical eclipse that radiated from his entire being. Soviet, again, did the same. For several long moments, they each glowed bright, allowing their citizens' thoughts, regrets, and strengths, to flow unhindered, mingling as they did so, until the light emanating from their bodies, appeared to be of one substance.

Amidst one last hesitant moment, America regarded the Empire with that solemn expression, as if asking the unspoken one last time.

Soviet vaguely wondered if that grave countenance was actually masked fear, but quickly conceded that thought as simple aspiration and a ridiculous one at that. America had never truly feared anything. But then again, what was keeping him back? Then he caught a glimpse of what lay behind that look, and he felt himself physically flinch.

Truth...

Soviet screamed again, feeling his wants, his needs, calling out for it. He wanted it for himself! He wanted to taste it, to know that the same look would be found in his own eyes. With that, he jumped forward and began a new stream of attacks, his fists barreling with renewed vigor. He felt America move in sync, his own efforts meeting their max. For the first time in a long time, Soviet felt himself smile genuinely. They were both at their truest extents. This was how it was meant to be! Suddenly he was not seeing the fog, or his fists, or even America against him. It was as if he slipped out of the physical and into the sensual. He could 'see' America's glowing energy, sense his very soul before him, he could feel America's drive, ambition...his life...and with every powerful swipe, Soviet could imagine himself sweeping it all away from their residence and into himself.

'Dig deeper!' His mind demanded.

This drove him harder and harder; with every ounce of strength, he strived to rip directly into the vibrating essence that was America and find the very source of it all...

'It's the only way!' His thoughts provoked him. 'If you want your freedom, this will provide you the answers. This is the only way. You must go right...through...him...!'

It was true, he realized. For so long, he had attempted to convince himself that he was the strongest and the best. When he could no longer convince himself of that lie, he had conceded in trying to follow America's steps by raising his strength on his own and developing his nation, to be on the top. He had earnestly tried to find that confidence...or truth...or whatever the hell it was he saw in America, that he so coveted. But none of it had worked in the end. He still ached inside. Something was still wrong. Something was still missing...He couldn't deny that emptiness any longer.

He was being driven mad by it.

He had long ago passed exhaustion, yet he somehow pushed forth, even more, energy from...he wasn't even sure where it was coming from anymore...and focused it at his target. He could no longer see past his rage, his very pain. Instead, he let all of his focus slip to his fingertips, not the material ones, but the protruding tips of his own soul, and channeled them towards the incredible, pure energy of America's perfect aura. They moved faster and faster and faster against one another, their converging blows exploding with energized friction. Soviet nearly groaned with the effort. It almost burned to be this close; he felt as if his own essence was being seared by the contact, but that in itself set the adrenaline running all the more. He was almost there. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he knew that he was just mere heartbeats away from finding it, the answer!

And at that moment, he knew he could win.

With one last final burst, he exploded forward and gasped, as he felt hints of a serene warmth that flowed through him. He almost laughed with glee at the sensation. With all his might, he grasped the warmth and pulled, dislodging it from its place. Instantly, Soviet was filled with heat, not a painful, destructive heat, but a solid, empowering one. His limbs began to tingle and he felt that familiar intoxicating rush to his head at the consideration of ultimate victory. His heart began to pound in his chest and the blood in his veins throbbed with excitement. This was it! He'd finally be free! His mind looked down to the energy he held so close, America's energy...it was so beautiful...

Then it was slipping away.

As if he were being sucked through a vacuum, Soviet's awareness was whipped from his sensual milieu and violently shoved back into the physical. In one jolting moment, the internal heat was gone, replaced by a painfully contrasting cold. His conscious eyes were suddenly bombarded with restored sight, bright wheat and red, golden light, the endless fog...and the vibrancy of it all made his temples ache fiercely. He blinked against it, realizing in that moment that they both had become perfectly still. Yet...there was still something warm in his hand...

He looked down and his eyes widened.

Before him, was America, body rigid and trembling, his uniform covered in blood.

Through his chest was Soviet's fist.

And in Soviet's death grip, was America's still beating (and rapidly failing) heart.

The Republic remained, momentarily astonished at the sight. His own heart clenched in his chest. This...was good. This was what he had wanted. He pushed forward another laugh, moving his face into a smile. This was perfect.

'Now you are the strongest. Now you will have what you have been needing for so long! You will know his secret...' He felt his mind chant.

He waited for it to sink in.

His violet eyes moved down to America's face, to take in what would be the scum's last expression...one Soviet was sure he'd want to remember for the rest of his days: that look of defeat...

He was in no way prepared for what he actually saw.

Those endless eyes looked back at him, glassy with pain and loss of life, but still, full of...what was that? The skin about those eyes was quickly being rid of color and streams of blood were slipping over those still, bluing lips...but despite all of that... America's expression was still serene. In fact, he seemed almost...happy.

And in those deep blue eyes, SO could see his own reflection, and within it, his own eyes...

...still empty...

'How...?' Soviet felt the hairs on his neck stand up. 'How...can that be...'

No, he told himself. It was only a matter of time. The shock would wear off and he would soon realize that it was all over. The confidence...the happiness...would soon be his. But even as he thought this, he could feel the absence of the heat that was still stinging his fingers. He growled and clasped his fingers around the bloody, pulsating muscle, trying desperately to hang on to the sensation, but it wasn't the same. It wasn't that awesome, radiating aura he had experienced before, nor, he realized, was it the true source of the warmth he had felt. No, instead, America's life force was fading, and, with it, the warmth and the truth.

Then he knew.

America was dying. And he was taking Soviet's freedom with him.

No...it wasn't possible...

Suddenly America's face shifted and those thin lips pulled into a small smile. Then a silent chuckle (the kind only his voice could make), floated across to Soviet's ears. Soviet frowned, suspecting at first that it was a mocking gesture, that America, knowing he was depriving the Empire of his dues, was laughing at him. He was going to win upon second look, Soviet realized that those dark eyes were not really seeing him any longer. They were fading just like their possessor was. But still, deep within them, Soviet could see that...thing...

That's when he realized what it was in its entirety.

It was peace.

Soviet staggered back, his fingers almost releasing the barely trembling heart. How could it be that, even in utter defeat, even in the face of death...America could be so comfortable? So peaceful? So...free? How could he do this? Soviet felt his stance fall. This was the proof: America was truly unconquerable. No matter what he endured, he would remain the victor because he would take that peace wherever he went, even if that place was beyond the grave.

But the question was how? How had he achieved this state? Soviet had to know. For so long now, he had suspected that victory would be the ultimate answer, that killing America would bring him to and beyond whatever level the other had reached that allowed for such calm and collection. But suddenly, Soviet realized, that wasn't true at all. Here he was, imbued in America's death, and he was still answerless. Then that voice came back to him.

'It won't help you...'

Soviet felt pale. America had been right...he had known all along! He had known, then, that Soviet had viewed his death as the way out. Then that cold look of knowing, of acceptance, flashed through Soviet's mind. Then America had also known what would happen...that he would die...and had allowed it to happen...

No, Soviet knew. America had been fighting his hardest. He had had no choice...

But if victory wasn't the way...then how? How was he supposed to have found it?

Soviet stared deeper into his fellow Nation's dull eyes, asking silently.

The other blinked slowly and Soviet could have sworn he saw the tiniest nod. He had to know!

''How, America? What was I supposed to do? Where did I go wrong!'' He pressed, sheer desperation leaking through his actions. He used his free hand to grab the other's shoulder and shake vigorously, bringing that pale face to his own, looking him straight in the eyes. He did not notice his own increasing trembling or the fact that he was smearing America's face with the fluids of his own heart. ''America! Answer me!''

For one glorious moment, America's lips parted, and his lungs pulled in a shaky breath as if he were to respond. Soviet pulled him even closer, his own ear nearly pressing to those bloody lips with the need to hear the answer. America tried to form a word; his fingers tightened around Soviet's own collar, pulling as if to press Soviet to himself. A soft sound escaped him then, a hint of a response, but it lost its strength and ended as a sigh. Then his head listed to the side.

Soviet stilled, eyes wide with horror. Wait...he hadn't gotten his answer yet...

'AMERICA!'

One last time, America's eyes moved up to Soviet's, light and warm, and then they softened almost beckoningly. It was an invitation as if he were asking Soviet to join him in his serenity. Then the life left him completely, and America slipped away with the faintest last breath.

Even as his skin began to chill with death, America remained smiling, confident...peaceful.

Soviet stayed, stunned into numbness by the pain that was enveloping his chest. He looked down at his long-time foe, then at the dead heart still in his grip. Without logic, Soviet moved, pulling his hand back until his fist was within the gaping wound and the heart was stationed where it ought to have been undisturbed. He let it go, hoping with some strange, disillusioned faith that it would somehow miraculously fix itself and begin beating again. If it would, America would live, the life would come back, the warmth and peace and truth would all come back...

...Soviet's freedom would come back...

But the now cold organ simply sat amidst the now cold blood within the dead body that was before him.

No...his mind realized with horror...your freedom was never here, to begin with...

The Republic stood, once again at an utter loss, but this time it was a different kind of loss. It was definite, permanent...terrifying.

He felt himself crumbling beneath it. He looked down at his defeated enemy -or was this his supposed savior?- and pulled the body to his chest, clinging desperately to...whatwashe even clinging to anymore?

Suddenly he felt the weight against him change. With a jerk, Soviet pulled away and looked down to see America's being fading away. Soviet tensed. The last remnant, the last reminder of what could have been, begun to dissipate before his very eyes.

'No...NO...It can't BE...'

But before long, the weight was completely absent, that face with those eyes and that inviting smile...they were all gone.

The remaining Superpower, let his arms drop heavily beside him. He felt aware, but...somehow...no longer aware. He noticed that he ached -oh how awfully he ached- but it was not as potent as it had been. Or was it? He wasn't sure anymore. Then he looked around, realizing only now that he was still in the fog...

How could he have been so very wrong? It wasn't supposed to be like this...

But America, with his gentle, unspoken message (whatever the hell it had been), the Republic's goals, his answers, his life...it was all gone. And it had all been destroyed by his own hand...

He allowed himself to sink until he was deep in the abyss, the thick air enveloping him again until all he knew was darkness.

And Soviet was alone.

AN:

This piece was simply meant to be an exploration into Soviet Union's character and motivation. Honestly, I began this because I needed some practice with my writing style and at the time, I had been contemplating what a complex mindset Soviet's really is. Just some insight into what went into this piece, though it has been edited for length -if anyone wants a more thorough explanation of my thoughts regarding this, feel free to e-mail me (it may be mindless drivel, really...if you are not interested in my delving of personal interpretation, feel free to skip to the wee last-line disclaimer, I not-so-accidentally neglected to place at the top.)

With this, I wanted to convey what I see as the very obscurity that is Soviet's mind (at least at some point). To help portray this obscurity, I purposely made many aspects of the scenario ambiguous. Is Soviet dreaming or is he awake? Is he in a real place or fictional one? Etc. etc. I also tried to keep all (or most) mentions alluding to the historical timeline, so as to limit one's perception of time or place (and thus possible biases towards Soviet's 'current' status of character development) within the series.

I also wanted to explore Soviet's relationship with Alfred. I, as a fan, want to believe that Soviet knew deep down, that Alfred was not completely infallible in strength, but is so in heart...even though Soviet does not often allow himself to recognize that it could be Alfred's character itself that makes him so strong as a Superpower. Thus Soviet's instinct to reach into Alfred's heart (in this case, literally), becomes symbolic to his ignored insight regarding where his answers really lay, as well as his fruitless endeavors to find them through erroneous means. This is more or less how I imagined Soviet would have eventually ended up (at least temporarily), when the inevitable day, came in, which he realizes that War with America/Alfred, is not the end-all solution to his own troubles and that the problem truly lies more with himself than anyone else.

As evidenced by the last sentence, Soviet Union is alone because 1). He failed in his goal of spreading Communism throughout the world, 2) He lost everything; (his citizen's trust, the States' trust and approval, economy, government, and etc.), and 3) He never truly understood America or his goals of wanting stability before he passed.

Also, I wanted to portray this as the 'Fall of the Soviet Union.' Just a note, this is NOT Russia/Ivan, in Hetalia, but Soviet Union, who later became, Russia and 15 other States. Just portraying Soviet Union as Russia, is a flaw that writers make when trying to write about Russia/America/Other States, and the events surrounding the Soviet Union.

Also, I am aware that the USSR and USA, did not have a physical war, but a symbolic and psychological war through the means of intervening in other countries' conflicts(Korean War and Vietnam War), and propagating their citizens to hate the other country and see them as an enemy.

Thoughts about whether I was or was not successful in any of this, (or whether the fic itself was successful in general), along with ideas on how to improve it or my writing style, are more than welcome.

Also, on a side note, I still don't know the Nicknames for the two Powers during the Cold War. I looked everywhere and was disappointed that I could not find accurate, names for the Superpowers. I've seen the Nicknames used synonymously in various ways. Thus, I decided on changing the variations for the names regularly throughout the work. I apologize for the inconsistencies.

Thank you for reading my work, and I hope that you take the time to review my other stories! Have a good day and a good week!

Happy Independence Day!

~Enchanting Grace