United States of Hetalia

Because I heard of what's happening on the site lately, and I started panicking. And I wrote this.

The man's slim fingers danced around the keyboard.

Arthur smiled as he added the final sentence to a year of work. His green eyes were, for once, went bright at the thought of turning his story in to the publisher.

He had written a masterpiece. A work of art. The greatest story of love, crime, and life ever written.

He carefully pulled the flash drive from its slot. Who could believe such a small thing could hold so much value?

Hours later, with the flash drive in his pocket, the writer bolted straight for the publication company's building. 'Fantastic Fiction Press: Unleash your creativity' flashed in bright blue letters above his head. He'd been going to this company for years, giving them short stories.

He had always trusted them.

Soon he was sitting before his publisher. Usually, the man's face brought him comfort. However, his wheat-colored hair was a mess and his sky-blue eyes were dull.

"Is something wrong, Alfred?"

"...Nothing. Nothing, yet. Just show me what you've got."

Arthur wordlessly handed the flash drive to his publisher. Alfred scanned the words on the screen, his disappointment becoming more apparent as he continued.

"...This is very explicit, isn't it?" he asked in a dead tone.

"It's all for the plot!" the writer said with a warm smile on his face. "You see, Antonio's partner caught him having an affair with Francis, so he runs off to New York City to find work. Then he runs into this criminal named-"

"We can't have it, Arthur."

The writer looked at him in disbelief. "What?"

"You've heard that we've been implementing some new policies, right?" The young publisher looked down at him sadly.

"You mean the reason why so many books are being removed from print?"

He didn't answer.

"Answer me."

Still no answer.

"Say something, Alfred!"

"...We cannot publish this." He moved to put the flash drive into his pocket.

"Wait! Give me back my work!"

The publisher nonchalantly pressed the button beneath his desk. "Security."

The writer felt two burly pairs of arms grab his. "Let me go! What happened to freedom of the press? Freedom of speech?"

The wheat-haired man said nothing.

"'Unleash your creativity'! What a sham!" he screamed.

Arthur was flung from the front door and landed in the mud the downpour created. He glared at the lie that flashed in bright blue letters and the publisher standing under it.

"It's for the good of the public, buddy. I'm sorry." The publisher dropped the flash drive to the ground and stepped on it with a sick crunch. Without another word, he went back inside.

The writer stared in shock of what just happened.

His comfort.

His years of work.

His livelihood.

Gone.

...No comment.