kay_cricketed (kay_cricketed) wrote in hetalia,

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[FIC] The Great Elevator Massacre of 2010

Title: The Great Elevator Massacre of 2010
Author: kay_cricketed
Characters: America, Russia, England, France, Germany, Italy, Japan, Other Minor Characters
Pairings: None (implied crack Russia/America, England/America, Finland/Sweden?)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: France gets naked.
Summary: In which the major superpowers of the world get into an elevator… and never get off. And no, that is not a euphemism.

Deanoning from the Hetalia Kink Meme – a request for “elevator hijinks.” All humor jabs are made with the utmost of affection and adoration, for reals. ♥

The Great Elevator Massacre of 2010


“Hey,” said Germany. “This elevator isn’t moving anymore.”

There was a pause while everyone took stock of this, having been interrupted in their conversations (and in some British cases, enraged tirades). “Everyone” comprised of those nations that were strongest, cleverest, and most ruthless—that is, the ones who had shuffled their way into the first and only elevator in the building, and who were able to laugh at the misfortune of other, slower nations that would now climb twenty-eight staircases to get to the conference room. Twenty-eight long, steep staircases with smelly pipes and obscure arrows painted on the walls that lead to nowhere.

They were mighty. They were victorious.

They were…

“Oh fuck,” England said at last, “it really isn’t.”



They were eight.

More specifically, they were eight nations in a tiny metal elevator with a 2,000 pound weight limit and tinny, half-hearted jingle music that issued in from a speaker in the corner. England secretly thought, immediately upon the revelation that the elevator had in fact come to a grinding halt, that maybe America’s fat had somehow conquered the weight limit alone and—

“I’m not fat,” America insisted. Feeling that this wasn’t emphatic enough, he added, “You’re old.”

Okay, it wasn’t a very secret thought.

“Well, someone had to have broken it!”

“Are we stuck in the elevator?” wondered France in delight.

Japan, who had a strong affection for wires and other things of a mechanical and miniature nature, inched toward the elevator panel and began examining buttons. To do so, he had to creep around Italy, who wailed and threw himself against the elevator doors in passionate and desperate fear. “Ve~, what if we run out of air, Germany, what if we run out of air?”

“We won’t run out of air,” Germany said flatly.

“I’m hungry! We’ll starve to death!”

“No. We won’t.”

“There are so many things you can do in a stuck elevator,” France purred to the nearest ear.

The nearest ear happened to be Russia, who was rather glad he didn’t get stuck on the elevator alone (because that would not be any fun). He merely shifted closer to America, who had access to the only food in the cramped metal box (a pocket of chocolate bars and peppermints) and was less likely to molest him. Also, Russia liked America in the same way that little boys liked the ants they burnt on the sidewalks in the summer. Only with a little more pizzazz, and outer space.

“I need a drink,” England announced, which was about as helpful as fuck all.


America told England just how helpful that was.

He was the first person to receive bodily injury in what would become known as the Not So Great Elevator Massacre of 2010.


“My ear,” whimpered America.

“Pasta,” whimpered Italy.

“Obviously we have to do something about this,” Germany said, ignoring the pitiful noises coming from the corner of the elevator. “Is there an Emergency button on that panel, Japan?”

Japan shook his head in negative. “It appears someone has… disabled the button. With some kind of chewing gum.”


Poland, who was actually the first nation to arrive, like, totally early, sat in the conference room. He blew a few pink bubbles while he waited.

Oh my god, like, everyone was so late! He would just have to take this opportunity to do his nails.


“Dastardly,” America intoned, having apparently recovered long enough to sound cool and paranoid at the same time. He was ignored.

“Why are we in such a hurry to get out?” France murmured, gazing from under his half-lidded eyes at the group. “This is the perfect chance to embrace love in the literal confines of—”

“Does anyone have a cell phone?” demanded Germany.

There was a collective shuffle as the nations checked their pockets and made “hmm” and “oh” noises. Germany, who in actuality was having his cell phone repaired (it had suffered in an incident involving boiling water, a kitchen whisk, and porn) and hadn’t made provisions for a second, resisted the urge to bang his head against the elevator wall. It was a valiant effort.

“I’m afraid mine is getting no reception,” said Japan in regret.

“Love is best sent in letters, not through telephones! Like the great Napoleon to his beautiful, esteemed wife—”

“Bloody thing’s dead again. Fuck your U.S. Cellular, America.”

“Heroes speak eagle!”

Russia held up his cell phone. It was unfortunately smashed beyond repair (and slightly bloody, and there was a story there no one wanted to know).

“Pasta,” whimpered Italy.

“Right,” Germany said with absolute calm. The wall beckoned to him ever more fondly.


Heroes speak eagle.

This was actually America’s code, you see. It meant: “I had a really cool cell phone that was shiny in the sun and used a lot of awesome ring tones, like Star Wars and Jurassic Park and Cellular Bells, but there was this whole thing yesterday where I put it down on the garden bench, and you know it’s what, a hundred degrees this summer, so I went inside for a milkshake—or four—and when I came back out, this really huge awesome eagle was flying away with it—oh my god, I am so Sandra Bullock in The Proposal here, right? But anyway, I chased it and called to it, and I think it understood me because it dropped my cell phone! But it was in the lake.”



England cursed for a while.

When that didn’t help, he attempted to kick the doors open. They were steadfast and refused to budge. So he kicked them some more.

It at least made him feel a lot better.


“Yes,” continues France, “think about it. Locked away. Seven nubile men. Alone, without any way to satisfy their… appetites.”

“Ve~, I know,” sobbed Italy. “I know exactly what you mean.”

America would have offered them some chocolate, but he decided against it. Italy was weak. France was… French. If it came down to survival of the fittest and who had the most sustenance in this new, cramped territory, he’d have to be strong. Resolute. He’d have to ration.

He nervously shoved half of a bar into his mouth and chewed.

England, meanwhile, continued to scream obscenities and crunch his heel against the doors. Japan watched nervously; it was very impressive what tea deprivation could do to one.

“Is there no emergency exit hatch in the ceiling?” asked Germany to no one. But it wasn’t to be so; apparently the designers of this elevator had never watched a single American spy film.


Russia was being very quiet.

Sometimes he liked to do that. Be very quiet.

(America smelled like capitalism and peppermint. It was very nice. Someday, Russia would like to pluck his eyeballs out and wrap them in the bacon of the Motherland.)

This was actually very catchy music.


“Wow,” said Finland as they passed the 15th floor door, “it sounds like someone’s really banging on something nearby.”

Sweden grunted. He wondered when his wife would need a break; he could sorely use one, but it wouldn’t do to look weak. Not in front of Finland. Although it was Finland’s fault his spine was aching so badly. It just didn’t seem right when Finland was the wife—

This was about the point Sealand decided to catch a ride on his father’s back.

Yeah, that went over like gay goat sex in a church.

Or Elvis.


Minutes passed. Discussion happened and failed. The elevator opted not to budge an inch. France attempted to take off his pants twice, but was deterred once by Germany’s bark and the second time by England taking excessive action.

“I’m reasonably sure he’ll recover the use of that,” England informed everyone after he’d finished. In the corner, France joined Italy in the whimpering squads. “If he doesn’t, good riddance.”

The rest of them collectively wondered how long they would last before becoming the next victim.

“Excuse me,” Japan said politely, “but I’m starting to worry about something Italy said.”

They looked at him.

“No one’s come to get us yet… What if they opt to leave us here?”

“No one would be that mean,” protested America.

“Or that cunning,” England added.


China looked around at the conference room, devoid of any other superpowers.

And he smiled. Oh, he smiled.

It was a dog-eat-dog world. And China had in fact eaten dog.


“I need the hands of healing!” shrieked France, writhing on the floor.

Germany sighed, and at last gave into the temptation to bang his forehead on the wall. It felt surprisingly good. “Does anyone have any other ideas for getting out of here?” A roar of voices. “One at a time!”


“Better. Japan, you go first.”

Japan cleared his throat graciously. “Thank you… As I was saying, I believe we could escape if we all combined our efforts into one titanic, superhuman feat. By putting our strengths together to become one cohesive, striking machine—”

America interrupted. “Hey, I saw that anime. Can I be Red?”

Japan gave that serious consideration.

Germany felt his strongest link begin to crumble. He stifled another sigh and turned to England, who gave him an unreadable look that at the same time spoke volumes. It basically said: Ask me, and I’ll send a third victim to the carpet grave.

Which meant that no, he didn’t have an idea. Germany turned to Russia in pure desperation.

Russia smiled innocently. He had been standing very still, so as not to alarm anyone. “You could become one with me.”

“Okay,” said Germany, and then immediately revised his words. “Okay as in I heard you, not okay as in let’s do it.”

“In Soviet Russia, you trap the elevator.”


Hours More minutes passed. Fear began to gnaw, hungry at their bellies, sending them into frenzied arguments and violence. The elevator began to sag with the weight of their pessimism and fading will to live. The air was stagnant and filled with the long, echoing moan of souls that had seen the worst life had to offer and realized there would be nothing else awaiting them for all of eternity, unless that eternity involved a repair man.

Toward the end, you tend to reevaluate. Bond.

“Here,” said America, offering England a peppermint. “You know, I really didn’t mean to make you cry during the Revolution.”

England took the mint. “And I didn’t mean to keep you in dresses until you were taller than my waist.”

America kind of wished he’d kept the mint. Or maybe given it to Russia.


Germany banged his head on the wall a few more times. The novelty had already died, along with his patience.

Still, there were more important things to think about. A tiny keen at his feet made Germany pause; he looked down and then slowly slid to the floor beside his friend, perhaps his best and greatest friend, no matter what else he’d said. Italy looked at Germany woefully. He did this without opening his eyes, which was very impressive.

Next to him, Japan settled in quietly. And they were as three once more, alone and yet together, enduring in the end.


Outside the elevator, a small crowd had amassed.

Lithuania paused on his way up the stairwell, peering inside the open doorway and into the corridor where the group was sitting. They were staring at something—when he leaned into the corridor further, he could see it was the elevator doors that were closed.

“Um,” he said, “I’m pretty sure it’s not coming.”

“Shh!” hissed the lot of them.

“We’re listening,” Greece informed him, eyes wide.

“It’s so touching,” Hungry said, tears in her eyes.

“It’s hilarious. I didn’t know America wore dresses. That little slut. We should’ve financially gang-banged him when we had the chance.”

“Screw the meeting, this is better than Eurovision!”

Lithuania hesitated—he was pretty sure Poland was waiting for him at the top of this monstrous skyscraper—but then Belarus offered him some popcorn, which was unprecedented. He blushed, glanced down at his shoes, took stock of how they were perfectly good shoes for an ex-Soviet girl, and then accepted.

“I’ll tear down the doors that are keeping my brother and I apart,” she told him calmly as he sat beside her.


“… In another minute.”


“Wait, guys,” said America, lifting his hand up in the air. He paused for dramatic effect. “I got this. I’ve got this.”

The nations looked at him.

You know, thought England with a sudden surge of hope, cradled protectively in the his skeptical hands, he does have that super strength going for him. If anyone could pry the doors open, it’d be America…

The crowd shifted, parting for the self-proclaimed hero as he made his way to the elevator doors. He studied the metal plating, nodding to himself and making a few “ah” noises that sounded very positive. England edged forward, peering over his shoulder. Japan’s dark eyes widened in amazement at this Western feat. France cooed.

“Aha!” cried America. He beamed, eyes bright with divine inspiration. “I knew it!”

“What?” demanded Germany.

America jammed his finger against a button. “The people who built this skyscraper put a Floor 13 on here! That is so unlucky! Haven’t they watched the horror films?!”

“Damn it to buggery,” said England. “We’re going to die in this meat locker.”

“Seriously, it’s really bad! B-but don’t worry, guys, I’ll protect you. Heroes protect people, even from vicious elevator gremlins that bust out of the w-walls and eat your babies…”

Germany’s forehead hit the wall again. Hard.


When the end came, it was swift and brutal.

There was a ping as France’s buttons flew into the air.

And then, there was only screaming.


No one ever spoke about the Not So Great Elevator Massacre of 2010. It went down in the books as one of those things the nations never brought up again, like that Christmas they all got naked, the time Prussia wore pink lipstick, and Canada.

Speaking of.

“You know,” said Canada miserably, as he stepped out of the smoking remains of the elevator, “my cell phone was working perfectly fine…”



Tags: fan: fic
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