Sooooooooo… um… awkward. Here I am picking up a fic I haven't touched in a year.

By the way, a lot of crazy happens in this chapter. Be warned that you're going to be some very confused readers for a while. And also be warned that since losing my previous flash drive back in March, I also lost a lot of the stuff for this fic I'd been working on, and thus I've probably forgotten some details that I had meant to be important. I'll make up for it, but it's still going to be confusing.

Sorry. But things will get better! I promise!

Chapter 2-

Germany had never been a nation with many fears, and he'd always done well with sudden change and surprises- one had to be when they were as close to Italy as he was. Never had he been afraid of war, of death, or of dissolution. Never had he been afraid of such crippling loss.

Until now.

Everything had happened so suddenly for the blonde nation. It had been another normal afternoon spent in his office for the business he worked in as "Ludwig Beilschmit", staying later so he wouldn't have to go home and face whatever mess Prussia had made in the basement. Well, it wasn't particularly another normal afternoon, per se. Ludwig had just gotten a promotion and had received a personal visit from his boss asking him to be vice president.

After politely refusing (it was never good to have a position of power where people would directly notice he wasn't aging properly), Ludwig had packed up his briefcase and started on his way to catch the bus to take him home.

That's when things became abnormal.

It was always rare to see a fellow country away from their land, unless it was time for another horrendous world meeting. Sure, Italy and Japan frequented his house and Francis and Spain always randomly popped up at the door to drag Prussia out for some drinking or whatever it is the infamous trio did. America, dressed in an ancient Civil War uniform, standing in his front yard, was not normal.

"Come to see Prussia, I guess?" Germany had asked, with the slightest hint of wariness in his voice.

With a smile, America turned and tipped his gray hat with a wink. "Actually, I came for you this fine evenin'. One of my dear friends needs ta talk with you, you see. Since we can't keep him waiting, I'll hurry right along."

From under America's feet sprang a monochrome world, black and white and gray snaking its way over the grass, Germany's house, Prussia's "secret" garden in the back. Time seemed to stop with the sudden color change. The traffic stopped in mid drive, their engines silenced. Any chatter from the streets came to an abrupt end. Germany looked around in wonder to see everything just frozen. The birds, the people, the cars- nothing.

Before he could properly demand an explanation, America smirked again, laced with a kind of evil Germany knew was not from the America he had known for many years. Everything went black in Germany's mind, and he was out like a light.

What felt like mere seconds later, the mighty Germanic country had woken up to find himself looking up at a hazy, dark sky, perfectly and completely alone.

He knew he shouldn't have let Prussia and the Netherlands in the kitchen that morning! They had probably spiked his coffee with some weird substance, and now he was hallucinating. When he came to, Germany was going to ban his western neighbor from ever entering his country again and was going to put Prussia under house arrest for a month (he would've liked to make it a decade or two, but Prussia would have merely dug a tunnel to France when he started to get bored).

Shaking his head irritably, Germany picked himself off the barren ground and dusted off his khakis. The strange haze-induced world of his mind was not very vegetative at all. Small patches of grass littered the dry, earthy ground, and he thought he could see a few barren, craggy trees off in the distance. Germany crossed his arms and shouted, "America, unless this was my brother's fault or some crazy spell of England's, I'm going to throw you out a window at the next meeting. I'm thirty minutes late of feeding my dogs, and Prussia has most likely stained my carpets with his beer. So if you would kindly take me back home-"

"Wh-who are you?" a new, quiet voice piped up behind him. Germany turned at the soft French accent the girl had. If France, too, was involved in this mess…. The young girl wore a simple white dress to her ankles, made of cotton with no fancy designs or stitching. In fact, with the simple wooden cross she wore around her neck, she looked more like a fifteenth-century peasant girl-

Germany's first surprise had just arrived. "Who are you?" he demanded in turn, taking in her bobbed blonde hair with more apprehension. It had a few tangles here and there and- was that a piece of hay sticking out? Sure enough, she even smelled of farm land.

The girl looked him over a moment with such piercing pale blue eyes, just the slightest shade lighter than France's. Finally, she met his eyes. "I believe we need to find Rome and Germania."

((((()))))

Romano had his back turned to Heilrich as he furiously worked the dough before him, pausing every so often to quickly rub his arm across his eyes. Heilrich neglected to say anything, simply knowing that even the most harmless of comments would make him snap. So, in his own silent worry, Heilrich sat down in his previous chair, keeping watch of the stairs.

He hated being so useless. Why wasn't he up and out, looking for this Germany person? If finding him could make Italy better, why wasn't Heilrich already long gone?

Because his legs wouldn't move. His hands wouldn't unclench from the fists in his lap, and his eyes would not leave the stairs.

How on earth had this happened so fast? How had everything changed? Italy had barely been four feet tall, wearing a sweet, lacey maid's dress the last time Heilrich had saw her- him, he irritably corrected himself. Him. He still couldn't get over how utterly stupid that stuffy man had been. Italy had sounded as girly as ever, being so young, but to think him a girl? And that woman always with him had dressed Italy up in her traditional clothes! Heilrich would have thought a woman could see the difference between a little girl and a little boy.

Apparently not. His crazy caretakers.

Heilrich sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose when a dull headache sprang forth. Those two… those two….

He snapped his head up.

He couldn't remember their names. Blind terror momentarily overtook him. I-I…. They were there when we were kids- they lived in my house, under my rule…. No, that can't possibly be right. Why would two adults listen to a child like me? No! I'm sure they did! That woman was a maid like Italy, and the man was my tutor. He told me how to be a… a… what was I again? No child can be an empire. No child- or any other person- could be a country! Italy was simply a strange name! Romano, too! Obviously, their crazy Italian parents were so patriotic that they-

"Oi, Muscles, you like pasta, right?" Romano's bland voice cut through his panic. The Italian frowned deeper. "Hey, you alright in there?"

"I-I'm fine," Heilrich mumbled back, attempting a totally unconvincing smile. "And yes, pasta is… pasta is fine."

Romano cocked an eyebrow but said no more. With a tired huff and a weary shrug, he dropped the newly stretched and cut pasta into a boiling pot and started on the sauce. Heilrich focused on Romano's careful slicing instead of the flurry in his mind. Seeing Italy had just been a shock, he assured himself. All this reunion and revelation business had simply thrown him for a loop, there.

The fresh scent from the tomatoes wafted into the living room, involuntarily bringing a real smile to Heilrich's face. It had been so long since he'd last tasted Spanish tomatoes. About three hundred years, his mind calculated.

"'Tonio, man, I don't know how you do it, but these tomatoes are just delicious. You and that Romano kid grew them, right? Hey, kiddo, try one of these sandwiches. I bet they're way awesomer than Austria's smelly food, kesesese!"

Heilrich visibly flinched at that, his hands flying to grip the chair's arms. That tall man with snow white hair and crimson eyes- he was so familiar. Heilrich knew him better than his tutor and his maid. Maybe even better than Italy! Together, Heilrich and that albino had fought side-by-side on countless battlefields as the centuries passed. Even when he became a state out of an order, and later a full-fledged nation with Heilrich's help, he had always been so strong, had always looked out for Heilrich as if he were his little brother. Although he didn't look it, Heilrich was older than this man. He had just… gotten taller and older looking while Heilrich hadn't.

All of them had. His tutor, the blonde man who could never be caught without a gun, the quiet girl with bright blue eyes and thin braids. All of the people Heilrich had known as children had suddenly gotten older- and he hadn't.

He remembered being told by somebody that it was because he wasn't strong on his own. Without his subjects, he was nothing. Religious reforms and revolutions for independence had made separated his people.

But that was crazy, Heilrich half-heartedly argued with himself. He wasn't some… empire.

Heilrich felt his eyes stray back to the staircase. Italy would know for sure. They had known each other since they were in diapers, taken care of by their respective grandfathers. Heilrich had always looked up to Italy's grandfather. He was such a strong man, owning many lands and having so much power…. Power that Heilrich had always pined after.

His headache erupted into a full-blown migraine. He doubled over, hissing in pain. After a moment it faded, but it had left Heilrich with an assurance that something was terribly wrong with him. Stumbling to his feet, Heilrich slowly made his way to the staircase, blocking out Romano's surprised shout.

Italy… Italy's the only one who can help me.

"What do you think you're doing? You're not going in there and disturbing Veneziano's rest! Hey, listen to me, would you? HEY!" Lovino furiously buzzed into his ear, grabbing his arm and planting his feet on the ground. Heilrich easily pulled him along. "WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?"

"I have to know the truth! I can't remember anything except for Italy! That means he has to know something about me, right? Two questions isn't going to make him any more worse than he is already!" Heilrich stopped dead in tracks, his shout echoing in his head. What was that? That harsh, bitter reply? He didn't sound like that, and he certainly did care about Italy's wellbeing!

Why should I care about him? The only thing he ever does is streak across my yard.

Heilrich clutched his head, trying his best to keep his cry of pain inside.

Romano stared wide-eyed at him a moment, just as confused as Heilrich was. Before anything could be said, Romano reared his arm back and slammed his fist into Heilrich's face. The blonde man barely stumbled, but his nose definitely felt the blow. The swirling thoughts in his head dissipated, replaced with anger. "What in the world was that for?" Heilrich demanded, pressing his sleeve to his nose to catch the blood.

"That? THAT? You're only standing in the middle of my hallway going freaking insane, and you're asking me why I freaking punched you?" Romano shrilly burst, throwing his arms up.

The Italian grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him down to his shorter level. "Listen here. One more stunt like that, and I'm emptying a round into your head. I only let you into my home because I thought you'd be good for Veneziano. Since that plan obviously isn't working, I have no reason to keep you here. You're obviously not a country and you don't look like a government official to me. That means you're free game, my friend. I'm the country of the mafia. Don't get me angry."

The image of a taller, buffer Romano entered Heilrich's mind. This Romano had the barest hint of a stubble growing on his chin, and he was dressed head to toe in Roman armor. Heilrich narrowed his eyes, seeing Romano in a new light. He looked just like-

Almost instantly, every inch of Romano's threatening demeanor faded into terror. "I'm only trying to keep my fratellino safe so don't hit me!" he literally squeaked out, jumping back about a foot. "I'm sorry for threatening you and I swear I'll never touch you again, sì? Just please don't hit meeeee!"

"I-I won't!" Heilrich stuttered out. "I'm the one who should be apologizing. I just… I don't even know, okay? Just calm down, stop crying, go back to making your pasta. You're a good brother. Italy must be glad to have someone like you taking care of him."

"A-alright, I'll just…," Romano's voice trailed off. He looked up uncertainly. "What did you just say?"

Heilrich blinked. "I-I don't know. What did I just say?"

"You just said…." The Italian shook his head, thinking himself insane. Maybe Heilrich's crazy was contagious, and he had just infected himself by punching him. Romano slowly shook his head. "N-never mind. I'll fix dinner and… and then we'll figure all this out. Just… keep away from Veneziano, okay? Per favore?"

"…Ja. Ja, I'll… leave him alone. Sorry."

Romano merely shook his head again, spinning on his heel to head back downstairs.

Japan had better get here soon, darn it. I can't handle a sick Veneziano and a crazy Germany-clone at once.

((((()))))

France was growing more concerned the further they got in their travel. They were driving at break-neck speed in Spain's red truck, stopping at every nation's house. They would instantly feel a fellow nation pop up, thus knowing if Germany had been around.

Perhaps it had just been their harrowing welcome into Switzerland, but Prussia seemed… different than usual, France noticed. It was nearly impossible to tell when an albino had gone pale, but over the years, France had learned to detect when his friend was feeling under the weather. By the way his lips had lost color, he could tell this was one of those times. "Spain, pull over a minute," France said, ignoring Prussia's indignant cry. With a confused blink, the Spaniard complied.

Ignoring both Spain and Prussia's question/demand, France slapped the back of his hand to Prussia's forehead. "You're running a fever," the blonde reported uneasily, slowly drawing his hand back. "You haven't been around Italy, have you?"

Prussia rolled his eyes. He puffed out his scrawny chest and plastered a smirk to his face. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Francy-Pants. I'm too awesome to get sick! Come on, 'Tonio, let's get this show on the road."

"Don't touch those keys!" France snapped, effectively making Spain freeze. He turned back to Prussia with a scowl. "Mon ami, you know how bad Italy is right now. What if you too are reduced to such a state? Without Germany, you might just fa-"

"I said," Prussia interrupted in a clipped voice, his face darkening into a glare, "that I'm fine. Spain. Start the truck."

Spain did no such thing. He worriedly leaned past France, putting a hand to Prussia's forehead himself. "You are running a fever. How about you go home and rest up while France and I look for Germany?"

There was a stunned silence as Prussia flickered crimson eyes between their faces. France's lips turned downward into a frown. If Prussia thought he could get sick on their watch, he had another thing coming. France and Spain could be just as stubborn as him when they set their mind onto something.

Spain opened his mouth to spew the greatest best friend speech given, but an annoying, fast-approaching keening made him pause. France tossed a look over his shoulder. He let out a French curse. "Antoine, you parked in the middle of an intersection!" he fussed. "We're holding up traffic and the police are coming!"

The brunette began to panic. "I can't get another ticket! Romano will kill me! The last time I had to go to court, he had to drive me, and he yelled at me the entire way there! And since Italy can't drive me and you two are going to get in trouble too-"

"Hey!" Prussia finally interjected, eyes worriedly snapping away from the back windshield to glare at Spain. "I can't be blamed for this! This is all France's fault-"

"Mine? How is it my fault? Antoine's the one who stopped the car!"

A sharp rap on the window ceased the trio's bickering. With a gulp, Spain rolled down the window. He melted with relief to see the officer was a woman- a woman that didn't look as though she ever got much romantic action. Before she could speak, Spain blurted out, "Bad Touch Trio escape plan 34!"

Immediately, France leaned over and planted his lips on the officer's, scrunching her hair and pausing every so often to whisper something in French. Spain and Prussia gave each other a wicked grin. After a moment, France pulled back with a seductive smile. The woman, dazed, pulled out her notepad and scribbled away. She ripped it off and handed the paper to France. "Please… call me," she murmured, turning away.

"Au revoir!"France called back, blowing her a kiss. He pocketed the woman's phone number and nodded to Spain. "Thank you, mon ami. We may now proceed as planned to Belgium. America and Canada should be getting off their flight any minute now, no?"

((((()))))

As the Bad Touch Trio drove off again, cheekily grinning to each angry driver that passed them, Prussia turned up the radio. He smiled grimly to himself as Spain and France started belting out garbled lyrics. They certainly were not helping the headache that had popped up in Prussia's head, but they had forgotten why they had stopped in the first place.

He couldn't just stop his search on account of him getting a cold. Switzerland had had a cough, but he had still been able to kick them out of his country, hadn't he? And since Prussia was elevunty-gazillion times awesomer than the stuffy blonde would ever hope to be, his little headache was obviously nothing. He blamed the former nausea he felt on Spain's erratic driving. Prussia really had no doubt in his mind that Spain held an impressive record of tickets. He had gotten Italy and Romano to teach him how to drive, after all.

And that got Prussia to thinking. Why the heck were they letting him drive, anyway?

((((()))))

Germany had been more than a little stunned to see the town Jeanne D'Arc had led him to. The expansive town looked as if a thousand ancient cultures had mashed together. An ancient Greek amphitheatre was built next to a set of Native American teepees. The blonde paused, slightly agape. Jeanne also stopped. "This is the End of Time, Monsieur. Many older countries and civilizations are here as well. History allowed them to bring their architecture, and many other things, with them."

The nation slowly shook his head, closing his mouth in an attempt to regain the suave façade he'd put up. "But… this is impossible. How can something like this exist? And if this is… is a resting place for the nations, why are you and I here?"

"Oh," Jeanne said in surprise. "I'm not the only human. Rome's Julius Caesar is here, Native America's Pocahontas and Sacagawea, Kiev Rus's Yaroslav the Wise…." Jeanne's voice trailed off as she shrugged. With a small smile, the saint waved him forward. "I'm not sure why you're here, Monsieur, but Rome and Germania will know. They were elected leaders."

Germany swallowed hard, all of the rational explanations in his head falling flat.

He wanted to go back home and greet the disasters there more than ever.