Feliks Lukasiewicz
Posts : 28
Join date : 2013-10-05
Location : Warsaw, Poland (USA)
 | | Subject: Hetalia Fan Fiction: True Terror In The Dark October 10th 2013, 4:47 pm | |
| As the topic title says, I am in the process of writing a fan fiction with the Hetalia characters and several of my OC's. I have been obsessing over one chapter lately, a chapter which I don't even have a number for, and I kinda would like some other people to read it and give me some feedback. Thanks!!
Flaming...Falling...Death
The old storage building that has been standing for many years shudders and shakes, sparks flying off of it as the flames leap and dance, consuming the old, rotted wood. To the soot covered peregrine falcon standing on a cross-beam surrounded by flames, the battle is already looking...nasty. Shifting her position farther down the beam, the falcon is once again grateful to Lukas and Arthur for the spell that allows her to remain unharmed by flames. She shakes her head, returning her attention to the battle unfolding below her. 12 of the 24 human figures she knew, the 12 figures standing in a rough circle in the center of the room. Those figures are all bloody and battered, with torn clothing and freshly weeping wounds. The falcon watches as one of the figures falls, the one who always carries around a shovel...
With only thoughts of survival in your mind you swing your blood stained shovel into the violet eyed version of yourself. The shovel connects with your counterpart’s head, a dull, sickening, crunching sound resounding from the contact of metal with flesh and bone. You only breath harder when Stormfire shakes her head, grabs your shovel, and throws you against the ground. As flames burn your back you wrench your shovel free and twist away, getting up and falling back towards Yao and Elizabeth.
Stormfire watches you retreat with a smirk. “This is going to be fun,” she thinks, running after you with her shovel outstretched. “You shall never leave this hell,” Stormfire hisses, shoving the tip of her shovel into the torn leather and fabric below your breasts. You cry out in pain as you feel the metal emerge through your back, severing your spine and causing you to collapse. Pain washes over you, threatening to black you out into the blissful sleep known as death. This sleep, however, refuses to come until you have seen the fall of all of your friends.
Vash braces his rifle against his left shoulder and pulls the trigger, willing his muscles to hold out for a while longer. In sudden inspiration, he shifts his hand position to the barrel of the gun and swings the weapon at his counterpart. Vash’s eyes bulge, and he drops his gun mid swing as the bullets from Switzerland’s semi-automatic puncture his lungs, heart, and head. “How can I have been defeated so easily?” he wonders as he collapses onto the ground, his head spinning.
“Vash!” Elizabeta remarks in worry as she slams her frying pan into Liechtenstein’s gun arm. In a fluid movement she pivots on her left leg, bringing her frying pan up and about slamming the cooking utensil into Austria’s sword.
“It’s alright....” Vash says, his vision starting to fail him. He bites his lower lip and raises one hand to hold his chest as his heart starts to bleed externally through the bullet wounds. “Just vatch out or...” he starts to say, only to be cut off by an explosion of bullets from none other than Switzerland. Vash feels the bullets hit face, tear through skin and drill through bone. He feels his left cheek bone shatter and his left eye explode , the viscous liquid running down his face and into the deep, re-opened scar running along his bottom left jaw. The skin on his right cheek is punctured like Swiss cheese, the bullets shredding the bone and muscle into nothingness. His nose fractures in the middle, causing pieces of bone to get shoved into his skull and up into his brain. His one intact eye bulges as several bullets tear through the skin on his forehead and burrow through the bone and lodge themselves in his brain. Feeling the life draining out of him like his blood, the Swiss collapses with a sickening splat as his brains spew out of the bullet holes and into his blood.
“You shall die as well. By my gun, not my broder’s,” Liechtenstein says, pointing her black 6 shooter at Elizabeta’s chest and pulling the trigger...6 times.
In a vain attempt to protect herself, Elizabeta puts her frying pan in front of the bullets and attempts to duck, but her actions only put the left side of her chest in line with the bullets. Cutting through her weapon like air, the bullets grind into Elizabeta’s chest and heart, ignoring skin, bone, and organ membrane. She falls backward as her heart gets torn apart by bullet after bullet. She dies as soon as the sixth bullet hits her heart.
“This is so not cool,” Feliks remarks as he goes shoulder to shoulder with Toris.
“Please, Feliks...” Toris says quietly with a shake of his head, “we need to fight, not make bad puns,”
“Yes,” Tino agrees, lashing out with his dagger towards Finland. “And we will win,” he says, more to his counterpart than to anyone else.
“No, we will,” Finland disagrees, flipping Tino’s dagger out of his hand and into his own hand. With a grin of pure malice, Finland carves into Tino’s chest, treating the other like a holiday turkey. Too shocked to speak, Tino watches as his chest is cut open to reveal the pumping organs behind his ribs. Blood runs down his chest like a river, turning his already darkened light blue uniform a deep red. He staggers back, trying to get away from the ever persistent knife. “Don’t run, you’ll be dead soon anyway,” Finland remarks as he removes a chunk of flesh from Tino’s right thigh with one knife while slicing open his leg with the other. Hot, burning air hits tortured bone and muscle and Tino staggers, his legs threatening to give way. 1)“Hyvää Joulua,” Finland mocks, sticking Tino’s own dagger deep into the injured Finn’s head. All the color drains from his face as he collapses onto the ground, blood oozing up from around the dagger. Tino turns his fading brown eyes onto the closest figure to him and notices a flash of metal through green fabric before he can see no longer.
In a flash of silver, Feliks feels a sharp, unearthly pain slice through his left shoulder moments before he feels his right hand jerk as his sword starts to slip from his grasp. Without thinking, he tries to move his left hand farther up the hilt, but when nothing happens, he looks down to find no left hand...or arm. Letting his gaze fall, Feliks finds his missing arm laying on the ground. The realization, along with the pain, of what just happened hits him like a wave. “Are you liking your new look?” Poland asks, swinging his sword up and over Feliks’ head and towards his other arm. With a jump, Feliks manages to evade having his arm taken off. Instead the sword slips down his arm, re-opening the scar from their first battle. Now freed of its restraining cuff, the flap of fabric that used to be a sleeve falls limply off of his arm, revealing pale skin marred by bruises and a deep, v-shaped cut just above the elbow.
“You’re not going to defeat me that easily,” Feliks says, forcing confidence into his voice.
“You know you are, like, totally wrong. I am going to defeat you,” Poland responds, flipping his sword grip and making three, deep curving cuts down Feliks‘ left leg; across his thigh, across his knee, and across the front of his calf. Feeling his leg start to tremble, he shifts his weight onto his right leg while angling the right side of his body towards his attacker. “That’s not going to help. You are still going to fall,” Poland says, bringing his blade up and under the other’s arm, severing it midway between shoulder and elbow. Swinging the blade and spraying blood through the air, Poland brings the tip of the metal blade down, digging it deep into the green cloth that covers Feliks‘ chest. With a thrust, the metal sinks through the layers of skin, stopping between two ribs, where it violently jerks back upwards in an arch that breaks several ribs and brings the shattered bones through the surface of the skin.
At the sight of his own ribs, Feliks staggers backwards, his blade slipping from his hand and landing with a splash in a pool of blood. His face now drained of all color, the Pole collapses to his knees and falls forward. His right hand splashes in his own blood as he prevents himself from falling face first into the sticky water. As sweat falls from his face to the pool below, Feliks notices his left arm laying at the edge of the pool, rigid, pale fingers immersed in the blood like the talons of a predatory bird that have been sunk into its fresh kill. He closes his eyes, expecting to meet the cold steel blade of death at any moment.
“Feliks!” Toris cries out as his former partner falls. With a new anger alight in his injured chest, he swings his sword at Lithuania, thrusting hard and deep into the chest cavity. When he removes his sword, he swings the stained blade around, catching the cold enemy steel before it has a chance to meet Feliks’ exposed neck. “You will not hurt him anymore,” Toris says with an edge in his voice, tensing his arms and pushing up on his blade. Sweat runs down his face and upper arms, entering the open wound on his right jawbone, stinging the raw red flesh and the exposed white bone.
“How about we hurt you then?” Lithuania asks maliciously, orange fire light glinting off of his stained steel blade that was already moving. With determination no one can waver, Toris uses one foot to grab his partner’s blade and pull it towards himself. When the blade gets within reach, Toris removes a hand from his blade and reaches out for the other, only to watch his left arm get cut off at the shoulder. He soon finds himself falling when his legs are cut off just above the knee and he lands hard on his back next to Feliks. The Lithuanian watches as their counterparts leave them, the two vanishing into the flames. With a pained sigh, Toris removes his sword from Feliks’ back and places the weapon in the blood next to the Pole’s detached left arm.
2)“Razem w śmierci Liet....” Feliks whispers in a barely audible voice, his right arm finally giving way. He twists his lower body so that he lands on his back, his head next to Toris’.
Toris smiles, bringing his right hand over to grasp Feliks’ twitching right hand. 3)“...kaip Žečpospolitai,” he finishes, before he watches Feliks close his eyes. Watching his friend for one last moment, Toris too closes his eyes.
With his green eyes hard, Antonio swings his axe into the wood of his counterpart’s axe. Sweat shines on his forehead and neck, mixing with the blood from a long cut to the right side of his cheek and neck. Back to back with him were Lovino and Feliciano. “Have you had enough yet?” Antonio asks his counterpart.
“Of battling you? Or waiting to kill you?” Spain responds, pressing harder on his sword. “No, don’t answer. I’ll answer myself,” he amends, removing his axe in a swift movement that causes Antonio to fall forward. With a quick movement, Spain brings out a sword and runs it through Antonio’s chest. “My answer,” he starts, pulling out the sword, “is I have had enough of waiting to kill you,”
Breathing in the burning air, Antonio raises his axe in a thrust meant to rake across his opponent’s chest. This thrust meets only air when Spain leaps upwards. Jerking his head up in shock, Antonio attempts to block the oncoming blades with his axe, all the time knowing that it would prove futile. When the twin steel blades come down, cutting off his arms and long strips of flesh along his sides, Antonio realizes with sudden clarity that it is now his turn to die. “Roma, I hope you realize how much I have worked to protect you when I am gone,” he says, leaning back slightly. His green eyes meet Lovino’s dark amber ones.
“Antonio you bastard. What do you-a...” Lovino starts to ask, only to stop when the double bladed axe cuts off Antonio’s head. Lovino stands in shock for a fraction of a second before turning back to Italy. “Your stupid Spain killed Antonio,” he says, his voice cracking. He turns his machine gun towards first Italy, then the approaching Spain. A vein on his left arm twitches and pumps blood down the Italian’s arm and onto the floor, the speed of the flow increasing now slightly. “You shall now die, before you kill-a my fratello too...” he remarks, pointing the muzzle at Spain and pointing the trigger.
“No, it is you who shall die,” Spain comments calmly, dogging the bullets and thrusting Lovino’s gun out of the way with one hand while using a suddenly drawn bayonet to cut open Lovino’s chest.
“Fratello! Fratello!” Feliciano cries out as he watches Lovino collapse, his chest split open like a shark about to be gutted, falling onto a beheaded and un armed Antonio. Feliciano whimpers in pain, his own chest splitting open in a mirror image of Lovino’s, before turning to Italy, defiance and anger in his amber eyes. With a swing of his sword, Feliciano manages to cut Italy deep across the heart before having his middle split clean open and separated like a cut tomato. “I-a tried, and you won,” he remarks as he falls, his blood and internal organs spilling like beans onto the floor and the now silent figures of his brother and Spanish friend. 4)“Saremo sempre insieme...” Feliciano says, his voice almost catching in his throat as he lays a weak hand on his brother’s arm before his eyes roll up into his head.
“Aiyaa!” Yao cries out in pain, falling to his knees and into his wok when his arms are cut off and his lungs punctured. He gasps, spitting up blood from his lungs before China splits his spine. You reach out your hand and grasp his shirt, pulling him to your side. He looks up at you, the eternal fire in his soft amber eyes fading away. You hold him close, unable to speak, letting him know how much he means to you. Hot lips touch you hand weakly, exhaling one last time before freezing. To your right, Elizabeth collapses like a badly felled tree when her counterpart cuts her up like a piece of cheese. You grimace when you see that your friend was missing her left calf, right leg, flesh above her right hip and over her ribs and stomach, left forearm, and the left half of her face. You reach out your other hand and grasp her one remaining hand as her one intact eye rolls up and to the right, exposing the white of her eye in her death.
Vladmir, the last of your friends to fall, hisses in pain as Romania cuts of his hands with simple rebound spell. Vladmir’s red eyes narrow as he runs through a list of spells in his mind. “I may be vithout hands, but I can still fight,” he thinks as he remembers a spell long forgotten.
“Vithout magic you are nothing,” Romania says, pride in his voice. He focuses the magic above his hands and starts to carve out chunks from Vladmir’s arms, legs, and chest. Flesh falls away in strips and sheets, revealing rippling muscle, bone, and organs that were pumping part of Vladmir’s life blood onto the floor. Vladmir then shoots his counterpart a sly look that is almost lost in the pain the he feels.
“I vould not be so certain if I vere you,” he comments, raising his voice and crying out what sounds like a magic spell in Romanian.
5)De spin foc suflet și creștere. Creșterea de viață suflet și învârti. Sufletul învârti stralucire si salt. Salt energia sufletului și legat. Du-ne la locul unde moartea poate fi batut!
Romania’s purple eyes narrow in anger. “No. That spell has never vorked. It shall never vork!” he cries out, shoving Vladmir backwards and into Finland’s dagger. The counterpart of Tino violently twists his dagger, before pulling out the blood red piece of metal in a deep cutting arch, bursting Vladmir’s heart and major arteries in a single stroke.
“My...friends....” you whisper, “...all gone...No...no...”
“Yes. Oh yes. And now, you shall join them,” Stormfire says, moving her serrated shovel towards your neck and taking it clean off, plunging you into blackness and...the not quite total oblivion of a soft, sensory light death?
Translations:
1) Finnish for “Merry Christmas,”
2) Polish for “Together in death Liet...”
3) Lithuanian for “...as the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth,”
4) Italian for “We will always be together,”
5) Romanian for “Soul fire spin and rise. Soul life rise and twirl. Soul shine twirl and leap. Soul energy leap and bound. Take us to the place where death can be beat!”
All translations are from Google Translate, so if they are inaccurate, I’m so sorry! French is the only other language that I can speak, albeit badly, besides English.
Also, in case you haven't figured it out, counterpart is 2P, as are all the countries called by their specific names. All human names are the 1P nations.
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