Hikou no Kokoro here! This chapter took an unexpectedly long time to complete. Sorry for all those who were anticipating this chapter (if there are any out there. D:). Hope this chapter meets your expectations!

Now special thanks for my reviewer, The Water Junkie! And TheVastEmptiness for subscribing! You guys are the reason why I keep writing.

Enjoy the story!

Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers: Hetalia. It rightfully belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. I merely own the AU plot.

To Create Perfection

"I do not believe in the God of theology who rewards good and punishes evil."
—Albert Einstein

"Reason 3: Details"

Let me tell you a story.

Arthur was a dreamer. His head didn't always stay on his shoulders, and he would look up in the sky and construct a beautiful castle in the clouds with, of course, no architectural plans or laws. But no matter how others would look at him, shooting down all his airy words of hope, he never wanted to change that about him. He loved the abstract. He saw no enjoyment in the black and white hues seen as he looked from side to side; grey was a much more interesting shade. But in a way, his habits were more of coping mechanisms that one day led him to hold his dreams in clenched fists.

Reality was a cruel beast. It bit at Arthur's feet, clawed at his legs, and barked until his ears became deaf. No matter how much his hands would scramble upwards, reality hunted him down, grabbing his pant-legs and wrenching him back towards earth. Eventually, he grew sick of reality; he was either going down or continuing for the sky. The latter appealed to him more. The moments of success were enough to keep reaching. They acted like drugs—marijuana, LSD, PCP—and he never did learn to let go.

Many would say he was born a dreamer. That wasn't true. He first became a dreamer when, after hearing news about BCWD, he turned to his mother to ask what BCWD was. She smiled, setting down a book and pulling off her reading glasses. She told him that it was a place for great scientists, discoverers, and inventors. BCWD brimmed with brilliance of the scientific and technologic branches. Only the most perfect researchers were allowed access to the beyond-imaginable facilities stored into the multibillion laboratories. And through this combination of citizens and environment, nuances progressed until they shook the earth, like when the great Romulus Vargas' cure for cancer and Alan Beilschmidt's cure for Alzheimer's.

Arthur's eyes gleamed. He sucked in the romanticism like a black hole. Bouncing across the kitchen and clambering onto a chair, he declared that he one day wanted to become one of the geniuses populating the ever prestigious BCWD. His mother laughed, smoothing his messy nest of hair. She told him that he should strive for this beautiful dream. One day, he could bring the dream to the cruel beast of reality.

Then, Alistair arrived, slamming his backpack onto the ground by the kitchen table, where he usually was seen doing his homework. He was in his tenth year of high school by then, and a perpetual frown had appeared. Overhearing Arthur's rambling, he cast Arthur a cursory glance, saying, "BCWD? Only one out of millions can go there. You'll have to be a genius to get in, and you'll have to work hard enough to beat out your competition."

"I'll do that! Just watch, Brother! I'll get into BCWD by twenty!" Arthur declared, puffing out his cheeks and his chest. A determined flame sparked in his little green eyes.

Alistair rolled his eyes, throwing his textbooks onto the table. "You'll have to learn five times faster than everybody else. Then you'll have to find money to live in another country and get scholarships to their Uni. And even then, you have only a point five per cent chance of getting the job."

"What's a 'per cent'?"

"See? There's no way you'll make it."

Arthur suddenly deflated, his shoulders sagging and his eyebrows drooping on his forehead. He looked up at his big brother and spoke with a tiny voice, "I'll learn!"

Alistair only scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Alistair…" Their mother placed a hand on Alistair's shoulder, but the redhead shrugged it off.

"Bugger off, Mum."

The woman's expression hardened and she huffed. Her son shouldn't be using that sort of language towards his parents. At any other time, she would hold up a finger and scold him until his ears bled. However, she didn't, and never did after that day. In a way, she must have given up on him; there was no way to fix a hopeless case anyway. So she gathered Arthur up in her arms and marched off. The blond boy clung onto her, fisting his little hands on her shirt.

"What's his problem?" Arthur sniffled.

"He's just a bit moody, honey. Don't mind him."

"He has a stick up his ass."

"Well, yes—I mean, Arthur Kirkland! You shouldn't be using that language! Where did you learn those words?"

Arthur sniffed, wiping his eyes with his scratchy sleeve, and looked up at his mother. "You tell Papa that all the time though."

"That's completely different!"

Arthur laughed. He was a smart child; from a young age, he could identify hypocrisy before any of his peers knew what the term meant. And his mother smiled too, hugging him.

From that day on, Arthur worked towards that dream for BCWD. He was going to show up that Alistair. If Arthur worked hard enough, the dream was in reach, and once he could taste the achievement, Alistair would learn to never doubt Arthur's prowess ever again. Then Arthur would be the one scoffing at the small person at his feet.

Arthur applied himself. He really did, but he was still a child, chasing rainbows, unicorns, and sparkles. During the school day, he would learn the basics, such as arithmetic, algebra and geometry, and then traverse to the more conceptual subjects within the sciences, such as biology and physics. The subjects were fascinating, certainly, but complicated. Little Arthur could read about the processes of bioengineering, but he couldn't apply any of it. He could explain certain parts, but they were merely the words from the texts he read. As a result, he escaped into fantasy whenever he had free time, doing what his beloved parents specialised in. Sacred tomes would rest on his desk, opened, and fiction novels would hide under his pillow so he could pull them out to read to himself before bed. The fantastical made more sense to Arthur—all the worlds that would never be. Sometimes, he dreamt of the day when he could be transported into the world of fiction; he would become like the night in shining armour, saving all those who ask him to.

Eventually, fiction stole his heart—all the wonderful literary works from The Hobbit to Don Quixote and, eventually, "Romeo and Juliet." He would complete his maths and sciences when he needed to, and then run off to read or write his own amateur fiction. The numbers rested on his desk while books were scattered everywhere else. He said he was dedicated to the sciences, but in reality, imagination fills his mind. Quickly, his sciences grades were plummeting.

One Christmas, Arthur got a beautiful hardcover version of his favourite books, The Lord of the Rings, from his family. They were the collector's edition with beautifully gilded pages, calligraphic words, antique maps, copies originals from the long-dead author, and decorated covers. The books took a good chunk from the family finances; his sister even relinquished her own wish list so she may see the beaming expression on Arthur's face when he tore open the wrapping paper. Arthur adored those books. The squeal emitted from him was similar to a woman excited by a man. He clutched the gifts to his chest, his green eyes sparkling, as he thanked "Santa," even though he knew long ago that the mystical "Santa" was his parents and older sister. Then he scampered off to lounge on a sofa to spend the rest of Christmas Day reading.

By then, Alistair was that infamous dropout who hung around the wrong people at the wrong times. He managed to find a job as a waiter in a restaurant, though, before his reputation and habits became too bad. On the Christmas of that year, his employer told him to work. He went, of course; nobody was going to stop him. As a result, his presence wasn't a part of the Kirkland festivities.

When Alistair came home, he stopped outside the front porch, smoking a cigarette while glancing around. Although he wasn't legally supposed to smoke, his habits rivalled that of his father; the only people who knew were Arthur and his sister, who couldn't do anything about it even if they wanted to. Arthur noticed the redhead outside, but he largely ignored the older Kirkland and continued to read his novels. After all, neither one was bothering the other, until Alistair finished the cigarette and walked inside.

"Welcome home," Arthur greeted automatically, eyes not leaving his page. Whenever a Kirkland came back home, Arthur would make a habit out of greeting with those two words; his mother, sister and cousins would throw their adoration upon him whenever he did. However, Alistair should have been an exception that day. If Arthur hadn't said anything, Alistair wouldn't have noticed him and would have trudged on to bed.

But he did. Alistair lifted his piercing eyes and glared at Arthur. "Hello, brat," was Alistair's two-word greeting back. He approached Arthur; dirty, calloused hands reached towards Arthur, who still didn't lift his eyes. "What're you doing?"

Arthur shrugged. He was too much in a good mood to snap back. "Reading."

"Reading what?"

"The Lord of the Rings."

"Oh, really. About what?"

"Well, it's about a hobbit, a really small guy with huge feet—"

The book was snatched from Arthur's hands. He yelped, reaching upwards and leaping to his feet. "What are you doing?" he cried, jumping and flailing his arms in desperate attempts, as if he were a baby bird wishing to fly.

But Alistair held the book up, thumb between the pages and the spine. He examined it nonchalantly. There was no respect for the book; already, Arthur could see the bindings creak. If only Arthur were a bit taller, and Alistair a bit shorter, Arthur would have been able to grab the book before further damage was made. But that wasn't the case. Alistair grabbed a fistful of pages—the parchment crinkled like cries of the dead—and ripped them out.

Arthur screamed. The paper fell to the ground in flakes; he collapsed to his knees as Alistair shredded words apart. He only cried, looking at the ground and not at Alistair's painfully blank expression.

The rest of the Kirkland family rushed into the room. The women gasped, covering their mouths with their hands. They collapsed beside Arthur, hugging him as he cried over the tragedy. The rest stared at the ruined book and then cleaned it up, listening to Arthur wail. Alistair turned and silently walked away towards his room. If Arthur had paid attention, he would have heard his father's meaty hand slam against Alistair's head with a resounding crack.

But Alistair deserved that.

Since then, Arthur became more devoted to the sciences and maths, although devoted wasn't entirely the correct term. At first, it was out of fear. His family bought replacement copies of the book Alistair shredded; of course, they weren't as fashionable or as pretty as the collector's edition, but they still contained the same story and the same words, just in paperback. Arthur wanted to protect those, so then the past wouldn't repeat itself. He stashed all of his fantasy novels underneath his bed, never taking them out until the day he was moving to the World Domain. With nothing else to do, Arthur turned to textbooks, workbooks, papers, essays, encyclopaedias—everything and anything that would give him a step up. Alistair never bothered Arthur when the blond boy was working or studying, or Alistair simply was never home and Arthur didn't notice through the books. But sometimes, when Arthur was distracted, he could hear Alistair's messy gait stop at the door, pause, then walk away.

Eventually, Arthur realised the true charm of science. He loved the black-and-white nature, the logic, the cause and effect that gave the sense of understanding. There was a rush when Arthur could pick things apart—machines, organ systems, chemicals—and make alterations in order to achieve a desire purpose, or goal. Science was problem-solving, completely unlike the grey areas of literature, which posed more problems than it could solve. Science could be controlled in order to benefit. In science—in BCWD—everything made sense. There was no room for second-guesses, wondering about whether or not the truth was real. Arthur could find why and how; he could explain the situations, and that gave comfort. He didn't need to fear the unknown, because reason didn't give the unknown, as long as reason solved the problems.

Just like Alistair. With science and reasoning, Arthur could pull apart who Alistair exactly was, and why Alistair did the things he did.

As Arthur started bumbling towards his high school years, Alistair's smoking habit increased. Eventually Alistair was no longer afraid to smoke when he knew people were watching him, regardless of the law. He almost always had a cigarette hanging from his lips, lit or unlit depending on how deep his scowl was, and carried a new pack of cigarettes in his back pocket. Wisps of smoke would waft through Alistair's room—through the window and under the crack of the door—until it almost seemed like a rudimentary oil engine was running on his bed. The habits cost him his job. During Arthur's second year of high school, Alistair could no longer find work. His employees told him to quit smoking. Of course, Alistair never did. He never tried. So nobody wanted him. Love required action, but Alistair did nothing.

Arthur found that curious—curious as to why Alistair didn't do anything and continued to decimate himself by smoking. Alistair always seemed to be a person who would go out of his way to do something, mostly to cause harm, and to satisfy his own twisted wants and desires. Why wasn't smoking any different? As a result, Arthur decided to use his science-based mind to find the reason in Alistair's many facets. Maybe, just maybe, Arthur could explain the perpetual scowl on Alistair's face, and explain why Alistair had ripped apart Arthur's book on that Christmas Day so many years ago.

When Alistair was away, doing whatever foolish and violent redheads would do during the weekend, Arthur snuck into Alistair's room. Arthur never really had been in that room. He was afraid of the consequences. It was like a den where dragons would sit upon hordes of raw gold, bellow hellfire from their nostrils whenever any unfortunate creature wandered in. One step in would be two steps too many; in matters of minutes, Arthur's head would be tumbling down the stairs. Or at least, that was how Arthur imagined things would go. With the dragon gone, the mouse came in to play. Arthur creaked open the door that never locked and slunk through the mess of clothes strewn all over. That was all Arthur saw in Alistair's room: clothing. The rest was just an unused desk, a lamp, and a bed that was never made. The clothing was crumpled, probably worn for days on end without washing. Arthur was careful as to not to touch any of the piles of fabric in fear that they carried a disease of some sort.

Eventually, Arthur had to. When he realised he couldn't find anything under the covers of Alistair's bed or in the drawers of the desk, he had to pick through the piles, tossing shirts and pants held between the edges of his pointer finger and thumb. Most of the time, his search was for naught and the end of the pile was nothing more than hardwood flooring. During other times, he found stained and crumpled books and torn pieces of pages. In a way, they were treasures. Arthur would always go out of his way to pick them up, scan through them, and then stuff some prizes in the back of his pockets. One time, he found a page of Lord of the Rings, and another time a passage from some physics book about quantum theories.

However, the real treasure was the half-empty cigarette box. Arthur found it lodged between the headboard of the bed and the wall and draped with a red shirt that probably wouldn't fit either Alistair or Arthur. Carefully, he slipped the box from its place and sat down to examine it. Dust had gathered all over the top; it must have been forgotten for at least a year. His meticulous fingers popped open the top and slid one cigarette from its little place. It was nothing more than a white stick with an orange tip. Nothing particularly fascinating jumped out. Arthur shook it, wondering if something would fall out.

Unfortunately, everything was cut short. Arthur didn't know when Alistair would come home—the redhead would never announce where he was going, or what he was going to do, and nobody asked him—and was too engrossed in his examinations. Arthur didn't hear the front door open, didn't hear the silent greeting that was never said, didn't hear the feet climbing the stairs—and he forgot that he didn't close the door behind him when he entered. In only moments, heavy footsteps clambered up to Arthur, and a fist connected with his cheek.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Alistair roared.

Arthur, sprawled on his back with a hand to his throbbing cheek, glared up at the glowering green eyes above him. "What does it matter to you?" he spat, propping himself with his elbows.

"You were going through my possessions." Alistair's gaze travelled from Arthur's eyes to Arthur's hands. Then he froze. The cigarette pack was still in Arthur's left hand, and the other held the sole cigarette. Arthur could see all the ideas racing through Alistair's mind. The moment stretched longer and longer; silence rang in Arthur's ears as he waited for Alistair to react. Soon, Arthur couldn't wait. He wasn't going to be a fool sheep waiting for the knife of the slaughter to come down; he slowly scooted backwards, hoping that he could escape before Alistair moved.

Alistair grabbed by his collar and slammed him into the ground. Arthur's head bounced against the hardwood; blood began to drip through his hair. "Don't touch the cigarettes, little shite!" Alistair's face twisted. Then another fist connected with Arthur's other cheek. A crack sounded—Arthur's nose broke; blood streamed into his mouth. Arthur screamed. His fingers pried Alistair's away, letting go of the drugs. Alistair lifted Arthur up and slammed him against the floor again. The room began to spin.

Then Alistair stopped. He stood up, glowering down at Arthur, and gathered the cigarette pack and single cigarette. Arthur watched Alistair, vaguely registering the movements. He heard a drawer open, things shuffling, and clothing being tossed aside. His eyes scrunched up with tears gathering at the edges, and his fingers covered his bleeding nose. Alistair walked up to Arthur again.

"Don't ever touch the cigarettes again," Alistair grounded out. Then he kicked Arthur in the stomach.

Arthur yelped, air rushing out of his lungs, and curled into himself with his hands clutching his stomach as he desperately gasped for breath. Alistair had long left when Arthur could breathe again, but Arthur didn't notice. He lay there, sputtering and bleeding on the floor. Nobody must have heard the noise; that might have explained why nobody came to Arthur's aid. However, Arthur was grateful. If somebody had heard, he or she would dote all over Arthur, further demonstrating the "wimp" and "coward" that Alistair accused him of.

During the few moments on the floor, before Arthur finally gathered himself up, Arthur finally figured Alistair out. Alistair was an innately evil person. He had no regard to human feelings whatsoever—a sociopath of some sort. If he could, he would set the neighbour's dog on fire, if the neighbourhood had a dog in the first place. All he wanted to do was see Arthur fail; that was why he kept calling him derogatory titles. And he wanted to see Arthur cry, beaten and bleeding. Alistair couldn't do anything more than to cause misery for all. And the cigarette incident was Alistair demonstrating his power. He was protective of his drugs; he was selfish. If one of his foul buddies asked him for one, Arthur could bet that Alistair would beat the unfortunate fool up. Alistair was an atrocious creature—immoral and self-indulgent. He would be the man who could confess to 30 murders and 30 rapes. His very presence was a part of the pollution of the world. One day, Arthur thought, Alistair would pay for his crimes, or any other future felonies.

After all, execution wasn't the only way a criminal could go.