[Event 4] Match-Up 2: Completed

[The First Inhabitant]

The Inhabitants waited ever so patiently for the unconscious nations to stir. They were almost identical in shape, voice and form, so it would be impossible for the nations to distinguish them apart. That wasn't of importance though. The least thing the countries could be worrying about right now was whether they were in the presence of the First or the Second Inhabitant. Eventually, they grew impatient and with a wave of a skeletal hand, the so called immortals were plucked from the depths of unconsciousness.

At this time, the Inhabitant slowly waited a few moments for the confusion to set in. The Inhabitants had in fact gone out and knocked the nations out before bringing them to this room, which they nicknamed 'The Gallows' for this very occasion. It was a plain, broadly sized space with no windows, furniture, or any source of weaponry. No, the nations were dragged in as they had been previously, meaning the only thing they had for combat was what they had on hand. Unfortunate for some, but incredibly in favour for others. Though, weapons wouldn't be the deciding factor in these games.

“Awaken,” the Inhabitant boomed as the nations were sluggish to stir. It probably didn't help that they were bound by twine and had ragged gags stuffed in their mouths. The Inhabitant could detect the struggle, the possible panic that ailed them before the Death Reaper was certain that it had the nation's attention. The darkness hid the Dead Man from sight, but it's hollow, icy presence was enough to guide the country's eyes and ears in its general direction.

“Congratulations...” the Inhabitant began, its voice chilled with venom, malice and the slightest touch of childish amusement. “You have been chosen to partake in a little game. Now I beseech you to listen well because I will not repeat myself nor will I answer questions,” explained the levitating skeleton. It did not wait for any signs of response, because it was more than aware of the gag that stopped the nations from human speech.

“It is noteworthy that you have survived this long, but it is likely that your luck will end here. Again, you will participate in a delightful matchup of ours. The rules are simple, little nation. You must either kill, or be killed.” The Inhabitant paused simply for dramatic effect. On the other side of the room, the other nation would be receiving the same speech from the other Reaper.

“There is a catch though. You will not be facing a monster...” the skeleton said softly, its face pulling into a hidden sneer. With a snap of its bony fingers, the rope that held the nations in check disappeared, as did the gag. “...You will be fighting another nation.”

The words hung in the air as the Manor's Servant watched the individual move. It grinned wickedly, eager to continue pressing the grave news down the nation's throat. “There's more. Someone must die here. It is not negotiable. If you refuse to kill the other and they mirror your choice... well, look downward.”

Below their feet, what seemed like solid floor was in fact a mere wire grating. Base the iron mesh were eyes. Yellow, red, white, but they all shared something in common. Hunger, thirst, desire. A low moaning sounded on cue from one of the vile creatures while another clawed anxiously at the grates that held it in check. The Inhabitant wasn't sure, but it swore it could feel a touch of anxiety from the 'immortal' that stood before it. The Inhabitant let the nation have a moment to process what it was implying before it finally continued, ignoring if it had actually said anything.

“In case I was not clear, if neither of you will fight, you will be torn apart by these beasts. Don't think you can survive them either; there are more savage creatures below than you could possibly count, even in your extended lifetime. So I will emphasize one last time, kill or be killed. Good luck, North Italy/Russia.” And with those parting words, both Inhabitants disappeared into the air as the light above flickered onto full power. Light blasted the darkness from every inch of the room, save for the cages below that grumbled and growled in response to the stimulus. Brown, stained wood-panels covered all four walls while the ceiling held what looked like a crystal chandelier that dangled a good 15 feet from the floor. Below, the creatures could be seen churned about as they stalked the shadows that the nations created.

And now, let the games begin.

___________________________

(In case this was not clear, each nation received the exact same speech [there are two inhabitants]. Someone must die in this game; this is not an option. The posting order is North Italy ---> Russia. You have 2[/u] weeks to make the starting post or we will assume you have no intentions of fighting, hence you will be killed off. This is to ensure people will not feign inactivity in order to not complete this event. After the first post, we expect you to post at least every two weeks UNLESS your posting partner will agree to wait longer. Good luck)

[Italia Veneziano]

Being a person well-versed in the art of spontaneous siestas, Feliciano knew what it felt like to just fall asleep on your feet if you were exhausted and in dire need of sleep. This groggy feeling overtaking him as he fought for true coherency was not normal for such a situation. While sleep was a luxury that he rarely had in the Manor, he still never struggled for wakefulness the way he did now. With a quiet groan, he shifted uncomfortably and lifted a-- Well, tried would be a more fitting term, since he was unable to lift a single hand to wipe the thin trickle of drool rolling down his chin--or actually remove whatever it was stuffed in his mouth and attempting to keep him silent. Instead of them press against his back, attempting to obey his wishes but seemingly stuck where he laid on his side. He tried harder, twisting his wrists around in order to break whatever bonds were trapping them together, but it was impossible, and he didn't know why. Ropes like this, in such a spot on the wrist, should be more than enough to either snap or work off, especially with slim hands and wrists like his own. But it was well and truly trapped right now, lying on his side with something metallic digging into his cheek.

"Awaken!"

It was as if someone had reached into his mind and hit an "on" switch--any trace of that earlier exhaustion and confusion was immediately dragged away like the lifting of a heavy blanket. "Hnn??" With a start, he began squirming into an upright position, golden eyes staring around the pitch-black room in alarm. His breath was practically visible as he exhaled heavily from his nose, swallowing nervously. Something felt completely and utterly wrong--he couldn't explain it, but there was a chill and this heavy, dark feeling hanging over the air. It was enough to activate his fight-or-flight instincts. He struggled mightily against the ropes restraining his wrists and ankles, but such a fight was futile. Despite the old, almost frayed state of those ties, all Feliciano's struggled reaped were scratches and bruises across bare skin.

"Congratulations." The word echoed in the air like a condemnation from Death itself, and the suddenness of the word nearly caused the young Italian's to leap out of his chest with a well-placed thump. Jerking his head up once more, large toffee-brown eyes searched everywhere for the source of the voice as it continued to speak. "You have been chosen to partake in a little game." A game? What kind of game could this twisted place come up with, he wondered to himself, feeling a worried frown attempt to tug at his lips around the gag in his mouth as he continued to struggle to his feet. If something bad was going to happen, he didn't want to be here when it started. Even if it was futile effort, Feliciano would do his best to leave before he was forced to deal with the twisted situation the "Inhabitant of the Manor" had in store for him. For this moment, the brunette was too caught in the sudden rush of "runrunrun" plaguing his mind to do more than fight his bonds. He hadn't gotten very far, only in a somewhat upright position, when his ears realized that the ghostly apparition was still speaking. "...ill I answer questions."

"Quefstons, ve?" Oh, that's right--there was still a gag shoved in his mouth, warping his words and muffling them into near-silence. He tried to pull the gag free so that he could speak, but there were apparently still things that needed to be discussed. "It is noteworthy that you have survived this long, but it is likely that your luck will end here." That statement had the Italian bristling--It was not luck that had kept him alive, but skill, a strong sense of survival, and a burning desire to see that all of his friends and family were safe. None of those things were luck, and it was not noteworthy that he was alive because he was going to stay alive, and he was going to help everyone escape. He wanted to spit these actualities at the monster lurking in the shadows, but with his capability for words momentarily taken away, he settled for a defiant stare, even as his subconscious screeched to flee, flee now before you regret it. He wanted to follow that urge, but it would be showing a sign of weakness when he wanted to be strong enough to fight his way free and prove that he shouldn't be looked down upon so much. "The rules are simple, little nation. You must either kill, or be killed."

That made Feliciano bristle all over again--this being before him, whether infected by a demon ages older than the Earth as it's been known, was only two hundred years old. It's one thing when Alfred or some of the other younger nations called him little, because they were pretty much all physically taller than him. And then to be so demeaning and then tell him that he was forced in a situation of life or death? He attempted to vocalize his discontent, but the gag proved a most efficient silencer. "There is a catch though," the Inhabitant said, sounding absolutely sickeningly eager as it spoke. "You will not be fighting a monster."

A catch? What kind of catch were they going to force on him? And obviously more than him, since he couldn't be the only one forced into this sick game. A sharp snap echoed through the air, and the sharp pressure around his joints vanished, leaving him free to rub the circulation back into his hands and feet. Those next words, though, made his blood run ice-cold. "You will be fighting another nation."

In a few swift moments Feliciano was on his feet. Fight another nation?? Squinted eyes gazed fruitlessly through the darkness, trying so hard to spy another figure that could hopefully belie the words resonating in his ears. And the ghostly being continued on eagerly, forcing the rest of the details into his ears and it was enough to make him want to throw up. "There's more--someone must die here. It is not negotiable."

Not negotiable...that meant that, if the being was telling the truth and this wasn't some horrible hallucination that the Italian was going to be forced to endure, like his brother's suicide, he would be pitted against one of the other nations and forced to fight to the death. It could be anyone--he might be forced to... kill his brother this time. Or Gilbert, or Tonino, Alfred, England, Francis, anyone. And they would be trying to kill him in return, because they all had reason to live. None of them deserved to die--and these beings thought it would be a "fun game" to have them kill each other?!

"How dare you, ve?!" He demanded, livid with rage as he turned on a heel and stormed closer to the figure. "How dare you--" but his tirade was cut off before he even had a chance to begin.

"If you refuse to kill the other and they mirror your choice, well..." The momentary pause was enough reason to stifle the rest of his tirade, bringing a fair share of dread. Their only way out of this sick fight, and... Forcing his eyes down after he was told to, his heart nearly stopped. There were hundreds and hundreds of eyes staring up from the darkness. How had he not noticed?? Those eyes were practically glowing in the dim excuse of light illuminating the room, and they were everywhere beneath his feet. Snapping teeth, growling snouts, and large and small bodies alike were down there, and there would be no question that those creatures would rip him to pieces and eat him alive before he managed to kill even three of them.

He didn't even pay attention to the Inhabitant as it continued speaking--what was the point? He knew the game now: You face another nation, you either kill the other, kill yourself, or let yourself be killed, otherwise you both get eaten alive. Someone had to die--but he didn't want to kill another nation, and he didn't want to die. So he was at an impasse. What was he supposed to do? Was he supposed to stand here and let the other nation take his life, was he supposed to kill his opponent, let himself be eaten alive, or...kill himself to spare the other the trauma?

No, he roughly reminded himself, shaking his head as he pushed himself to his feet. Suicide is never the answer, and letting himself stand here to be murdered was nothing more than assisted suicide in a gladiator game like this. While he knew that the other nations had reasons with which to stay alive, that did not mean that his reasons of living were not important, either. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he blinked past the shine of the lights at the tall shadow at the other end of the room.

This was a dog-eat-dog world. As much as Feliciano didn't like to think that way of the people anymore, there were still cases where the society-viewed "weak and inept" were shoved aside in and ruined in order for others to climb past their necessities and towards overabundance. In this place, that was only more the case--if you cannot keep up, your life could be forfeit. Of course, this never was the case between family, or very close friends, but Feliciano could count on one hand the number of people he felt truly would risk their life for him. If there was no way to save both their lives, he would not let himself die. He would fight, and only if he was bested would he come to terms with his demise. "Ve, mi dispiace, Mr. Ivan, that you were forced into this game as well" He murmured, drawing his weapons from their respective holsters under the remains of his shirt. "You know the rules, si?" His Beretta and the Smith&Wesson were held at his sides, light shining off the respective steel-gray and black barrels, in an nonthreatening position. But their removal was a warning--if Russia took one wrong step, Feliciano would shoot.

And he would shoot to kill.

[ru]

Sleep sustained the nation in less of a state of refuge than reality did; such livid dreams were an unrelenting neighbor that knew just how to strike his fears, more fear than the Manor could ever bestow upon him. The cue of unseen skeletal hands began drawing him to his conscience, his bound body beginning to find motion and heavy eyes struggling to show violet - though the more nightmarish fingers of slumber sought to keep him back. His mind was null to register the objects that restricted him just yet, the short breaths falling from his nose and the steady rhythm of his heart rising as his deep sleep slowly drifted away from him. His figure grew aware of the ache in its muscles, involuntarily beginning to stretch out from his coiled state - the heat was leaving him and his weight felt heavier, only to find he couldn't achieve what he wanted. Limbs attempted stretching again, eyebrows pinching together in barely conscious confusion at his lack of mobility. Each little movement brought attention to the binds and the cold, hard surface below him, a scratching noise sounding out from the grate material.

"Mmh.." came a faint, breathy whine, and the Russian felt he was still trapped in his dream as dark as the room around him. Violet closed again, pale eyebrows twitching down as he worked on falling back asleep - surely then he'd awake back in the warmth of his home.

"Awaken." What soft voices drifted through his head were quickly diminished, all five senses jolting awake with the boom of actuality. As if the voice had thrust him out of his nightmare and into a new one, Ivan sat upright to blink amethyst hues at his surroundings; though a new sense of disorientation ensnared him. Darkness ensued where his eyes traveled, head tossing this way and that to try and detect a glimpse of light, any trace of shadows or silhouettes that possibly showed as hints to where he was. His mouth was dry around the gag, swallowing was a chore against the scratchiness of his throat and the nausea that the pressing gag threatened. That booming word was now an echo in the back of his mind, and the silence that followed brought attention to how heavily he was breathing, waiting patiently to hear another word and confirm he hadn't imagined it.

"Congratulations..." Hearing it again, he could affirm that he was indeed awake. Such virulent intent in a childish laced voice didn't faze him. The tone was all too familiar, yet coming from a speaker he could not recognize; though no curiosity to find out who rose to mind. “You have been chosen to partake in a little game." Still void was any strike of fear in him. His idea of games wasn't any less eccentric than what the Manor has presented to them, and still he found himself giddy over what else the specters had thought out. "Now I beseech you to listen well because I will not repeat myself nor will I answer questions.” Questions were already beginning to bubble, though that gag did its part to stop them. A low hum sounded from the Russian's throat, long cold fingers wiggling in their binds. How silly, it seemed there was no other option than that to listen. Jaws clamped down on the gag between them, tip of his tongue prodding against it to test how sturdily placed it was. His muscles began to churn now, limbs tensing and flexing to attempt breaking the vines off - though all he was met with was the pained pressure of sturdy binds biting down harder against his clothed flesh. His efforts ceased, irritation settled at someone possibly thinking they could keep him restrained like this for long.

“It is noteworthy that you have survived this long, but it is likely that your luck will end here." A fleeting twitch of a smile came over him. This long? What he had gone through before he was even a nation was enough to have to survive - the rest of his life has been struggle, and all of this was nothing in comparison. "Again, you will participate in a delightful matchup of ours." He's faced a number of inhumane creatures and monsters in the past, all of which have evoked as little fear as he was feeling here so far. Still he remained quiet as words were taken in, expression playing at something vaguely amused. "The rules are simple, little nation. You must either kill, or be killed.” His distant gaze upon the source of the voice turned rather cold, bristled at being labeled something so demeaning as little. His body momentarily thrashed against the bindings once more, a response spat out in Russian only muffled and rendered indiscernible by the gag. The title followed by those simple rules opened a bit of flare within him, perhaps waiting for the spiel to be over with so that he could strike down whatever they planned to throw at him; prove to them he was the farthest from a little nation and didn't intend on being killed. When the dramatic pause came, violet eyes searched more readily for the round of creatures or so waiting as his opponent.

“There is a catch though. You will not be facing a monster...” On it went, and with these words a falter was made in the course of Ivan's thoughts, thankfully deterring him from a state of mind set on attacking without relent and spilling blood; the atmosphere of the room and its pulling of puppet strings on the Russian's instability were slowly starting to bring out the worst of that sanity against his will. He felt another rush of adrenaline at the snapping of fingers, released with the absence of restraints, and immediately his circulation and breathing relaxed into flow. His body slumped with a sharp aching, pushing himself beyond that to sit up just as the speech continued. “...You will be fighting another nation.”

Gloved hands patted beside him until before hitting thick metal, fingers wrapping around that to fit his iron pipe into its proper place in his hand. With this in check he pushed himself completely to his feet, jaws finding motion to return moisture to a dry mouth and throat, all previous feelings that had overcome him quickly washed away by a wave of panic. It felt as if this entire predicament was crashing down on him, as a test to prove whether he was the type of nation everyone thought him out to be, to bring all of his fears to light at once.

“There's more. Someone must die here. It is not negotiable." His head shook, though his mind made no move to direct itself onto any nation in particular; no matter his perspective on each, there wasn't one whose death he would want done by his hands. Such an effort he's made since his last fall to show people he's changed, to show nations that he isn't the 'beast' he once was and they still all believe him to be; all of his desperation to make a better impression and gather a friend or two, it was all being put at stake for meaningless. After this, he wouldn't possibly want to imagine what all of the others were to think of him then.. if he ever happened to find them again.

"If you refuse to kill the other and they mirror your choice... well, look downward.” No, perhaps he wouldn't refuse, but he had lost all ravenous intentions he'd had not long ago. Violet eyes lost the light in their hue, as empty as his smile as they directed down to the floor. His boot shifted to the side, sending a pair of glowing eyes directly into view - and as his own scanned the grate, he could take in just how many were stretched out surrounding him. That smile of his only grew a tad wider, listening to the swarming hum of growls and snarls as his focus remained solely upon those it sounded from. "They will get their fill either way," he uttered, voice forcibly calm, low in a whisper to himself. "All of the bloot you are makink us spill~."

Finally his eyes drew back ahead, coiled fingers absently dawdling with the cool iron held between them. “In case I was not clear, if neither of you will fight, you will be torn apart by these beasts. Don't think you can survive them either; there are more savage creatures below than you could possibly count, even in your extended lifetime. So I will emphasize one last time, kill or be killed." He found himself at an absence of fear at the idea of dying that way, for dying at the hand of another nation was the harsher anxiety in this situation. The creatures went ignored from here on. While he was the largest of them, a pit of his mind had to let in the truth that he was certainly not the strongest of the nations, and he wouldn't want to imagine himself a brute among them under any circumstances. Standing straight again, he'd wait, and sincerely hope that his death would not be instant. "Good luck, Russia."

The calling of his home name rekindled that flame of pride within him, flaring through his nerves to send sparks of confidence lighting across all that he stood for - so long as he kept thoughts of family, his beloved and his people in reach of comfort, that fire would not extinguish to rising smoke of defeat.

Pupils diluted once the light hit, head flinching down out of reflex against the sudden bright adjustment - though at the same time, violet eyes were quick to seek out who would be his supposed foe. Catching sight of one of the nations he's taken particular interest in befriending, that peculiar flame began to falter already. He realized he hadn't even taken a look at their surroundings, head swiveling to sweep a quick scoping gaze around the lighted room, giving barely enough time to register the particular details of the walls and chandelier above them. "Ve, mi dispiace, Mr. Ivan, that you were forced into this game as well." Now those eyes were drawing to the other's guns being pulled from their holsters, his smile immediately fighting to keep in place. "You know the rules, si?"

Russia's hand lifted in a calming manner, held out in front of him to signal his good intent, swallowing in his panic to get his point across before that warning advanced. "I-I do not want to kill you, Italiya.."

He took a slow, steady step closer, pipe lowered firmly at his own hip and free hand still pleadingly held up. The truth of their odds here was almost paralyzing, for he himself knew well the quicker power bullets had over the single weapon he had, be it readied for battle or not.. now all he would have to do is get close. He had always been terrified of dying, though the concept of putting it upon himself to take everything away from another country wasn't any better. His gaze clung to the Italian's face, taking in his expression and his potential motives, while his legs carried him another step closer. "But I am if I haff to."

His pace was slow, and still present was that now trembling smile. He would do all he could to initially come off as nonthreatening, in which smiling was always his last hope of reassurance, and perhaps now his last hope over all.

[Italia Veneziano]

Feliciano wasn't sure he could do this--dark amber eyes watched warily as the tall Russian's very contenance seemed to falter at the sight of him. It wasn't even due to the other relaxing in understimation of the Italian's strength, which normally he would have taken advantage of to end this quickly. No, Russia looked almost crushed over seeing him as his opponent, even as he kept that dangerous pipe of his clenched tightly in his hand.True, the tall, platinium blonde nation was a bit scary sometimes, but everyone could be scary sometimes. Ludwig was frightening when he was honest and for truly angry, and Lovino was particularly terrifying if you pissed him off badly enough. He had been told that when his temper gets the better of him, he was a sight to behold. But just as he had his own dark side, the Russian had dreams and sweet moments himself. Feliciano had also seen the Russian's gentle side, when he'd come visit to see the sunflowers in Tuscany during the summer. He saw the childishly wondering expression on that round face as he was dragged off to paint those same sunflowers after their meetings were done. Even if their final products weren't Van Gogh by any means, it was fun to see someone else willing to paint with him, especially if things degraded down to a paint-fight and the room looked like something out of Jackson Pollock's craziest dreams. Feliciano was friends with Russia, and any sort of facade he attempted to put on to hide that fact wouldn't be enough. He couldn't ignore those days they'd spend quietly talking after World Meetings, or the nights when they'd gone out to eat together to show off the beauty of their respective cultures. If he shot the tall blonde now, point-blank, when the other had that weak, shaky smile upon his face as he pleaded for a moment of sense in this madness... That would make Feliciano the lowest of the low, wouldn't it? He had no quarrel with the other, though even if he did using it as reasoning for killing someone in cold blood was just childish and pathetic. Certainly not something he could do, when he'd swore an oath to God that he would no longer sully his hands with blood.
[Did that oath even mean anything here, in this place? Feliciano, baby, you're clinging to false promises and empty hopes--you can always beg forgiveness for breaking a promise, but you won't be rewarded for honoring your words and letting yourself be slaughtered like a pig]

Besides, how could he take this man away from his siblings? Ukraine was such a sweet girl, she would be so distraught over this, and Belarus--Belarus would be inconsolable, that Feliciano knew with absolute fact. Even if the woman seems to have grown out of her obsessive need to marry her brother, she still was very attached, in a way that would almost certainly break her should she learn of her brother's demise.
[Not that you can dismiss her actions as craziness, can you, Feliciano? You would practically throw yourself at your own brother as that urge to "unify" infected you back in the 1800s. How is that any different? Judgmental pig]
No--just as the Italian couldn't, wouldn't let himself be taken from his poor big brother, he couldn't do wipe away the Russian and steal him from either of his siblings, could he? What right did he have to decide that the Russian had to die?

[Just as much right as you do to fight for your survival--that's what this is, Feliciano~ Not murder, not suicide: a battle of wits between two intelligent nations, no! A glorious struggle for life between two beings being haunted by the darkness of Death itself. And you want to argue rights?! How about this right, then: What right do you have to die? What right do you have to give up your life when you have a brother literally dependent upon your survival? You know that Lovino would suffer without you, your entire nation would suffer without you and you just want to stand here and say you can't do what needs to be done?!]

"I-I do not want to kill you, Italiya.." Those words jerked Feliciano from his mindless, open-eyed trance. They cut into his chest, almost a direct confirmation to his thoughts that the Russian, too, thought of the small brunette as a friend. The tall male took a slow, steady step closer, and amber eyes took in the sharp glint of light reflecting off that dangerous pipe, hanging at the other's hip. That shook him just as much as the other's soft voice, if not more because of the promise its presence spoke. He couldn't let the other close, even as his knees trembled and threatened to give way.

A dark shiver ran down his spine. "But I will if I haff to." Those quiet words, uttered so worriedly but with the firmest sense of confident only cemented the worry inside him, made that indecision in him grow.

As the other approached Feliciano retreated, two steps for every one of Russia's in order to keep their distance, lifting his left hand to point the Beretta at the tall man's head. The light bounced sporadically from the trembling steel, creating odd swirling patterns of white along both the barrel and the walls around them. "S-Stay back," He tried to demand, but his voice cracked slightly, ruining the authoritative voice he'd been aiming for.

[Oh, what's wrong, Feliciano? Where's that spunk you used to have? Faded, just like your power and influence, right? It's so sad, what you've done to yourself~]

Shaking his head sharply at these quiet whispers slithered through his ears, amber eyes huge with constricted pupils the size of needles as he stared at the Russian. His Smith&Wesson stayed at his side, but it too trembled with those shivers assaulting his frame. He felt as if his whole body was going to tear itself apart at the seams. Whatever confidence existed in him was gone. Now he wondered--was this an illusion, like he'd believed the death of his brother to be? The black, bloodstained pistol in his hand burned his skin, but Feliciano dared not let go. "Just stay away, Mr. Ivan," he hissed, a dark flash in his eyes as he stared into pretty violet he'd always thought was so fitting in that pale face.

His feet stood still, now, frozen to the mess floor. He didn't know what to do: so much of him was screaming to run, but he couldn't bring himself to flee. The rest of him was raging at him to pull the goddamn trigger, that hesitation existed as a deterrent against living and he was going to get killed if he stayed still.

How was he supposed to do anything when he was torn like this?

[ru]

Those eyes were quick, disheartened amethyst steadily losing its warm sheen as they lowered toward the movement of Feliciano's arm. Absorbing the sight of that gun barrel, finger poised on its trigger, a hovering shot awaiting to kill him as quickly as it was pulled. His shoulders fell, posture stiffened, at the Italian's retreating just behind it - and those words. Those words reached him, but this single weapon stood between any chance he had of reconcilement. "S-Stay back."

The breath that left him was shaky, and the smile to his expression faded underneath the weight of these circumstances - no lack of desire for it could change their situation now. There was once more that pool of irritation within him, to know that there were eyes that hungered to see one nation kill another; as if they were expendable, as if they were mere humans to the world. Russia was considering his current foe as no less important than he - Feliciano had as much to stand for and to represent as he did. Perhaps more than he did. He could recall that the other had a more abundant family and friends than his own, more than likely a more flawless relationship with them, the impeccable ability to keep them close and keep them plentiful. One of his own few friends, nevertheless, and all those efforts he'd made to turn Feliciano from frightened of him to fond of him, he could already feel crumbling in front of him. Those types of things never lasted for him, anyway, that would be too good to be true. He's had his fair share of tragic losses and friendships that could never be, he's seen blood shed from those he cares about, but it had never been put in his own hands to end them this way.

He couldn't tell where his train of thought was leading him, but his mind was aplenty with turmoil and all but what he should be focusing on. That barrel being pointed directly toward his head revved his panic, ticking away to his potential downfall were he not to quickly do something about it. His heart was in a flutter, mind succumbing further and further into that cruel fear that had it captured. Those thoughts of comfort were only making it worse. All of these things he wouldn't have the chance to go back and say goodbye to if it were he who was losing himself tonight. His sisters didn't deserve to go on without him, not knowing whether or not he was even still alive - granted, while he was here without them, he couldn't know that about them either. It was weighing down on him that he actually had so few to continue living for, though it was the importance of such a petty quantity that kept him grounded. Those lives were enough to fight for. But he would remain perturbed by that gun, dreadfully curious whether Feliciano would go through with it within the next few seconds. Expressing that might not get him very far, it could have him come off as weak; though for once, he didn't bother about that. The Italian was not any adversary he had to prove himself that way. He could detect the fear and the emotion in the other's voice, and he didn't want to overpower it. It was calming to know that Feliciano must be feeling the same as himself, but those creatures down beneath their feet didn't care for their emotions. The creaking of the wire grating underneath them affirmed that.

He could imagine how many others would be upset at him for killing the innocence that was this nation before him, the sweet visage that so many were fond of. Of course, he was among those several himself; the Italian expressed such genuine happiness in his childish face, perhaps more than his own ever could. And he wasn't one to take happiness away from someone else. Though that was where the envy settled in, the common jealousy that Ivan was so used to feeling and so ashamed of being dragged down by. The Italian always seemed to have as good of intentions as he did himself, yet he couldn't put a pin on what made it so much easier for the other nation. With all the time they'd spent together, he couldn't come to understand how Feliciano gathered companions so breezily; whenever Ivan were to try any methods himself, the reactions he got from others were nothing more than demeaning. Perhaps everyone else would be happy that he, Russia, was gone, no one would care--
N-no, he hastily pushed those thoughts out before they had the chance to dwell and poison his mind, grip angrily tightening on that metal pipe. It had his knuckles turning white, the muscles in his arm falling victim to tremble.

His options had dwindled to very few, and he knew well know that he would have to succumb to that mindset. There were a few ideas formulated, qualities of himself that he'd kept harbored in the back of his mind - though it was the only side of himself he would have to allow through.

"Just stay away, Mr. Ivan." The tone of Feliciano's voice was menacing, now, compared to what he was so often used to. But at least it still held informality; their familiarity, their relationship - they were still the same, despite all of this. And hopefully it wasn't a set goal to change that. Smile abandoned, he dropped a sullen gaze down to the floor, avoiding that familiar look within amber eyes upon the other. How badly he wanted that venom between them to go away.. But he hasn't completely lost himself yet. It was time to go through with this. He knew very well that he had that hearth of brutality still within him, that expertise with manipulating how things were done. He didn't want to use these tactics, but he had to. E-even for just a brief moment...

Another inhale, slowly tilting his chin back up to meet the Italian's golden glare. "I am afrait I cannot do that.." He started, projecting further hurt in his voice intending to stagger the Italian's stability even further. Violet took in everything that stood before him; where Feliciano was looking, the position and readiness of his finger on that trigger, how still he was standing, where the other, second gun was. He could feel his skin growing cold and clammy with nerves, though it was something to easily push past - so as to not falter the grip he had on his only weapon, his only chance.

He kept his expression forcibly collected, as composed as his posture as he took one more step closer. He wanted to make sure Feliciano saw no waver in his visage, that his intent was as reluctant as it has been from the start. Along came the return of that smile, entirely hollow and without any meaning behind it this time around. "That woult mean you woult win.. a-ant kill me so quickly like that." Once more his gaze dropped to that steady gun, then up to Feliciano's eyes, as he took another step. In between his hopefully distracting words, he was shifting his grip on that pipe at his waist, to make sure he'd be prepared for leeway usage of it.

One last closer step, and he stopped, feet together. Once more was his gaze steady to Feliciano's, perfect eye contact, before his words sounded out in a distant voice. "But we haff to. Ant I am sorry."

And in one swift motion, he took advantage of this close proximity and temporary starting ceasefire to lift that iron pipe up, swinging with all his might at the Italian's hand that held the gun, in attempt to knock it right out of his grip.

[Italia Veneziano]

Catching that disheartened, hurt expression on Russia's face sent the Italian's heart sinking even further in his chest. The heaviness in his chest was oppressive--he could hardly breathe with the metaphorical rock crushing his chest. But what else was Feliciano supposed to do? There was nothing to do now. He couldn't handle just sitting here and waiting to die, nor could he bring himself to pull the goddamn trigger and end the nation before him.

[Why can't you? There's nothing to stop you, idiota. There are no threats, no consequences, no hindrances. Just a conscience you hardly listen to, and all you have to do is smother it like a simple cricket]

Those words were true, despite everything he didn't want to admit. It would be so simple. Just a twitch of his finger, and this dark, characterless room would finally have a decent splash of color. This drama would cease, and all he would do is walk away and swallow down the guilt. He wouldn't have to say a word, no one needed to know. It would be his own secret, a deep pit of blackness that none but he dare trudge through. Simple, quick, efficiant--the Ludwig of days past would have been proud. Isn't that all Feliciano strived for, anyway? The recognition of others? Maybe--but not like this. His heart beat so fast, but felt so heavy. How could it race with the ache making his body feel like a lump of stone? Golden-brown still swallowed up the expanse of his eyes, pupils so slight they hid almost invisible against the bright color. They took in the way stress bit at the edge of that "emotionless" face. They noticed how, despite his calm words, his eyebrows would twitch and his eyes narrowed just slightly as he spoke, saying, "I am afrait I cannot do that." Why couldn't the Russian just stay away so that Feliciano had time to think, to get over this numbing uncertainty freezing his hand in place. This situation, despite the siimplicity of ending the life before him, was nothing but uncomplicated. And it wasn't fair that he couldn't have a moment to steel his nerves--but that was the point, wasn't it?

"That woult mean you woult win...a-ant kill me so quickly like that."

The Italian froze, heart jerking to a stop so fast he felt whiplash setting a jolt of pain through his chest. Warnings rang in his mind, so loud it was almost as if there was a voice screaming in his ear--[See?! The Russian knows the situation! He's going to attack--don't fall for his bullshit! He's just trying to guilt-trip you, make you so uncertain and weak that he can overtake you! Back up now!]--and his hands were shaking so violently he thought he could hear the grinding of his bones with falsely supersonic-ears. That knowing glance to that helpless weapon, violet eyes then darting up to stare into his soul; chills ran down his spine. His blood flowed like ice in his veins, rushing faster and faster until he was completely frozen. Roaring in his ears drowned out all other sounds, muting the rest of the Russian's words. He stared up at the other, horror dawning in his eyes. Time slowed down. That distant, unfeeling expression upon a normally cheerful face etched itself into his mind.

Unforgiving steel crunched his knuckles in just as his finger pulled the trigger. The crack echoed loudly in the large room, a bullet burning a trail against the Russian's cheek as it travelled just wide of its intended target. The Italian yelped in pain, fingers springing open to send that Beretta spiralling through the air to skitter against the mesh floor. He stumbled back, blood dripping from concaved bones and torn skin as his hand burned with agony. "N-No!" Panic tore through him, his heart fluttering like mad to match the hurt radiating from him. That was a low blow, and it set the tone. Cold reality sank in, and the Italian felt his mind begin to shut down. He was on auto-pilot, now.

The black steel of his bloodstained Smith&Wessen jerked up. Another bullet roared its entrance as he took another shot, point-blank into the Russian's shoulder. He paid no mind to blood or pain in Russia's contenance, pulling back, scrambling for distance. The Italian's mind was reeling, too startled into this path of action to be logical. Had he been thinking, he would have been moving closer, rather than re-entering the wide range of that weapon and leaving himself open for another assault. He needed just enough space to get good aim, make this a clean kill.

Feliciano didn't want Ivan to suffer.

[ru]

Reality hit like a freight train once that cold metal came in contact with soft flesh, and following suit its impact was realization coming crashing down upon him. Any chances of backtracking now and going back to how things were had shattered, and in the growing fog in Ivan's mind he knew whoever's death was impending was at the fault of his one striking action; and he wouldn't forget the look of dread in such vivid golden hues before it happened. So often would he be fascinated to see such a glimpse of horror in the eyes of another, though it was only heartrending to know that it was he to whom that fear was directed. While the blare of gunfire had startled him, it didn't break him from the threads of regret he could feel beginning to weave inside of him - and that feeling was pushed to the back of his mind, in with the rest of the unsorted emotions that had him spiraling.

His ear was ringing from the raucous arrival of the bullet, leaving him to violently shudder as he felt it go whizzing across his cheek and send pale locks of hair astray. Though still, he could hear Feliciano's panicked cry ahead of him, the clang of steel as the gun came clattering down to the grates below them and he knew his intentions were successful. He was being lead down the path he had been striving for, though his next course of action came as a dilemma. That disarmed gun now lay vulnerable on the floor for him to take, yet the second that Feliciano still had in possession was still a threat and was now inching further and further away from him. His heart was racing as quickly as these frustrating thoughts were, though his mind was instinctively sending him closer to begin closing that new distance between the Italian and himself, set on diminishing that one remaining threat between them, the remaining bullets that determine what time lies between his life and his death--

That strike to his shoulder sent that half of his body jerking back, feet taking a few stumbling steps back until he could catch himself again. The sound that left him was a choked gasp of agony, jaws remaining parted in the wake of shock as pain seared white hot through his shoulder and down that arm now rendered near useless. Blood spread and pooled in the already red fabric of his outfit, spurting through the hole punctured by that shot and trickling its way down his arms to his hands, where fingers were already slick with nerves and cold sweat. The pain sent him further into the flurry of thoughts now a poison in his mind, and in his head he heard a screaming to continue the attack yet an aching to stop and give up while he was ahead... Even with this fresh wound, he felt a loathing at himself for what he was doing, acting on violent instincts just to win a selfish match that only served to hurt someone he'd never mean to hurt.

His hands were shaking now, struggling to keep that grip on his pipe, forcing himself not to focus too much attention on that wound. He couldn't touch it, couldn't heal it now, so all he knew to do was fight through the pain - something he would always find hassle and torment in doing - and push on forward. His head lifts again to lock an unstable gaze on the Italian now a ways ahead of him, not bothering to fend off the tears that had risen to violet eyes and begun streaming down and staining pale cheeks. Jaws clenched as he forced himself forward at the fastest pace he could manage, body hunched at an angle to lessen the strain on his shoulder, the effects to be had on him from blood loss impending in his near future.

Once more was that iron pipe lifted, though this time with less fervor than his last strike had promised. His unscathed arm had to exert more force in handling the weapon without a second hand to secure his grip, bringing that valve of metal colliding down on Feliciano's loaded gun - he couldn't be certain where it would impact, though he was aiming to hit the actual gun this time rather than the hand that held it, wanting to get the weapon out of the way without causing another damaging blow to the Italian.

"Feliciano.." The Russian was already taking a different turn to what side of him he was showing prior, already coming down from his power stride at seeing just where it managed to get him. That strike of his pipe sent him falling down to one knee afterward, wincing as he hits the rough wire below them. "P-please, I.." Now his words to coming out in a panicked rush, wanting to get them out before Feliciano would make another possible attack or attempt to get away. Disarming the Italian was perhaps not to leave him open for a kill, but for Ivan to make sure that he wouldn't be killed himself without getting a final word through.

The pipe was dropped from his hand with another blatant crash, metal sounding against metal to symbolize the Russian's submission. His fear of dying was suddenly overridden by his fear of killing another nation, and quickly he could feel himself cracking underneath everything; under everything he has felt since the start of this, under what his mind was putting him through. He wanted to put an end to what only seemed to be an egotistical battle, to rid himself of such a ravenous mindset before it brings him even further into a riven state than what he's already in.

In a desperate seek of contact, that free arm reached out to grab what he could of Feliciano were the Italian still to be in range of him, watery eyes squinting up to him in line with that anguish upon his expression. "I-I will let you win, Italiya, i-if you woult just let me speak somthink first." Those words came out in loud volume, rushed and only hoping that the Italian would listen and not mistake them for anything else. Perhaps it was far-fetched with the display Ivan has been putting up so far, though he knew himself that this was entirely genuine.

[Italia Veneziano]

The voices screaming in his head drowned out the sounds of the room around them; of the monsters screaming beneath them in joy and eagerness, of roars and growls as they fight each other to lap at the blood dripping to the floor far beneath their feet, of pain as the Russian stumbles back with the force of the bullet tearing through his shoulder. Feliciano had put distance between Ivan and himself, more than enough room to lift his gun once more and fire. [Do it!] One voice howled, and it almost felt like something clawed his consciousness for attention. [Don't you understand what is standing before you? A gift! A chance to live, to see your brother, Ludwig, Gilbert, everyone! So stand straight and with pride--you're fighting for your survival, there's no shame in that.] The other voice cooed, attempting to logic its way through calming him down and simply pulling the trigger on the blonde before him.

But logic didn't equate to Feliciano just yet. His emotions were too involved, and he didn't want to shut them down. Yes, he was terrified of dying here. Yes, he wanted to live and escape and see his friends and family again. But he also didn't want Ivan to die--is that such a bad thing? He asked himself. Is it such a bad thing to want them both to live, for them both to leave and see their friends and family, and be friends together still? His eyes searched the man before him, looking for a sign that there was still hope that despite this twisted game, he was still a friend in the eyes of the Russian nation before him.

What caught his attention were tears upon cheeks paler than usual. Ivan looked awful--and that wasn't just because of the bloom of red as the nation's life-blood streamed from his skin in steady flow. From the injury that he himself, Feliciano, had caused. No, the other was pale as a ghost, even his lips were ashen as they quivered with the tears glimmering upon his skin. The large nation was suffering, he was hurting beyond the physical, and it was his fault. [Who cares?! He struck first, he hurt you, cutting away the ties you've built with him! Repay him, let him suf--] The words were cut off as the Russian stumbled closer, and it was all Feliciano could to to not throw his gun aside and catch the man as he took a wild, albeit weak, swing of his pipe. That swipe was nearly a quarter-foot off track, if Ivan had been aiming for any part of him, or the gun in his good hand. He'd tucked his left hand behind him, to protect it from further injury. The ache of broken bones still sent bolts of fire up his nerves, but not enough to be more than a minor distraction as he watched Ivan fall to one knee before him. "P-Please, I--", the man stuttered, unable to get the words out as fear crippled his tongue. In those words, Feliciano realized exactly what he was seeing before him.

The Mighty Russia was kneeling. Kneeling to North Italy. With fear in his voice.

The shock of this sight was enough to make him nearly drop his weapon, the metal slipping from nerveless fingers as he stared, slack-jawed, down at the pale blonde nation. After a moment to scramble after the Smith&Wessen with only one hand, he'd regained his grip just before it hit the metal grates beneath them. Then he flinched as the harsh sound of Ivan's pipe colliding with the metal grate beneath them tore at his eardrums. The moment of distraction made it easy for one of those large hands to wrap around his wrist, tugging him closer. When amber eyes lifted up to match with violent, the sheer hurt in the Russian's expression made Feliciano want to recoil. Had he done this? Had he really affected the man so that he would stare at him with such pain, such fear, yet kneel before him almost as a Catholic pleads before God.

"I-I will let you win, Italiya, i-if you woult just let me speak somethink first." He winced at the volume and the desperation in Russia's words, feeling guilt rise up to the back of his throat like bile. What was he becoming, if he had Ivan pleading with him so? What was this place doing to him?! [Nothing, Feliciano, the Manor is doing nothing. This is all you, you know that. Don't you remember a time when you begged Mongolia for a chance to see the Russian prostrate before you? Honestly, blaming everything but yourself, aga--] Shut up! That's not what's fucking important right now--Feliciano thought he had buried this, fixed himself from this dangerous mindset. He'd entertained that enough. He used what mental strength he had first to hit the metaphorical "mute" button in his subconscious, driving those voices to silence. Then he steeled himself enough to tear his arm from Ivan's grasp. Rather to get away, though, Feliciano was simply tucking that now-safety-locked weapon into his waistband.

His words were suprisingly composed considering the writhing in his chest: "I-I'm so sorry you were dragged into this, Ivan," he murmured, unable to look the blonde in the eye as he stood before this proud nation. "I don't w-want to do this, b-but I don't want to die, so...Say whatever you need to s-say, ve." His voice cracked on those final words, the breaking point for the Italian. Tears welled up in amber orbs but didn't fall. The Italian knelt down in front of Ivan so he could brush a few of those tears away from the other's cheek, sniffling even as he fought for the calm that Ludwig had tried to drill into him in such tense situations.

"I-I'll listen, I swear, promessa, a-and whatever happens... M-Mi dispiace, I didn't mean to shoot you, mio amico. Non stavo pensando." The apology was flat, so quiet because even if he wasn't thinking at the time he had been thinking--you don't just accidentally shoot someone like that. He just didn't know how to explain and he was sorry for shooting the man in the shoulder like that. It hurt, he knew that from experience, and he hadn't wanted to hurt the other nation, especially not like that. "W-What did you want to say?"