APH: The Great Artiste- Chapter One

The Great Artiste

Chapter One

From the outset it seemed like any other day. It would be just another boring and generic meeting, only enlivened when someone, usually Arthur, took the opportunity to make some skiving comment at someone else’s expense, and afterwards everyone would disperse back to their hotels. But fate never works in an even pattern.

Alfred always turned up first to meetings. Or rather, he always wanted to have first choice at the hotel buffet table in the mornings, therefore got up and ready before any of his fellow nations did. Being early also had the advantage of being the first to use the coffee machine in the conference hall lobby.

Whilst waiting, he enjoyed attempting to guess the order in which the other NATO members would usually show up. Ludwig would normally enter soon after him, more often than not dragging a whining Feliciano in his wake. After them usually came Matthias, Lukas and Emil, with Arthur coming in just after. From then on, everyone just came in steadily, and on average it was either Francis or Heracles who showed up last. The Frenchman had a habit of preening himself to perfection in the morning, though would swan in gracefully looking the least bedraggled out of everyone, and the Greek had the uncanny ability to be absent one minute, then materialise in his chair the next.

Not that Alfred cared. As long as he had a full audience, he was happy.

The conference hall was deceptively large and airy when empty. However, when full of people, it was stuffy, crowded and most likely smelt of coffee. It was an atmosphere one could quite easily fall asleep in, a factor frequently demonstrated by a certain cat-loving Greek. Then again, he had proven himself to be able to fall asleep anywhere he liked.

The American strode into the room, nodding cheerfully at the cleaner who was leaving, and took his place at the head of the oval-shaped table. Yet another perk of arriving early was that you always had enough space to reach your chair without having to jostle behind other representatives through the hall, which was especially vexing and slightly embarrassing when you sat pride of place at the end of the table furthest from the door.

He sat down, taking out his iPhone and opening up Cut the Rope. For some reason, he found the concept of cutting virtual pieces of string to feed an obese green blob highly entertaining, and as a result, he had been caught playing it during parts of other meetings, mainly during periods when he wasn’t talking.

His game had barely loaded when the door opened and, as he predicted, Ludwig entered. Moments later, Feliciano practically crawled in, complaining loudly in Italian about not being allowed coffee since one time he fell asleep and spilt a cup all over his lap.

Alfred hastily rammed his phone into his pocket, knowing that the German didn’t approve of video games in meetings, and straightened himself to look more formal. “Good morning,” he offered cheerfully, resisting the urge to wave.

“Guten morgen,” Ludwig replied gruffly, casting a glare at his Italian counterpart, who was slumped on the table, drooling and making soft whistling sounds.

The smaller man made a stifled high-pitched grunt and lifted his head abruptly, and opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off suddenly by the bang of the door being practically kicked open. Matthias bounded in, bellowing a greeting, flanked by his stony faced brothers and a characteristically disgruntled Arthur. They all nodded curtly to the occupants and took their seats without a word.

Alfred allowed himself to relax slightly. This was usually the best time, between the German arrival and the start of the meeting, for him to engross himself in his phone, provided nobody wanted to have a conversation with him.

He looked back down at his phone, only to realise that the battery was dead. The most annoying part of owning an iPhone was that no matter how long you charged it, it would always run out of battery life the moment you wanted to use it.

Damn, he thought, half-angrily half-miserably. With no technology to keep him amused, he could only do one thing if he wanted to avoid looking like he had nothing better to do; he would have to interact with countries he’d never heard of until they joined NATO.

He looked around the room, searching for someone he knew and was remotely interesting to talk to, or at least, someone who had the patience to listen to him. Nobody. Ludwig was far too serious for Alfred’s liking. Feliciano was asleep again. Arthur was in one of his moods, and this seemed to have rubbed off on Lukas, then again, he wasn’t sure if the Norwegian was genuinely in a temper or if he was always like that.  Matthias and Alfred’s personalities were too alike for them to get along. As for Emil… well, the only thing Alfred knew about Iceland was that it was an island. And that it wasn’t made of ice. Besides, the teenager looked so miserable that Alfred didn’t really want to go near him anyway.

Then again, he knew that even if the room was full he probably wouldn’t bother to talk to someone. The Baltic States were too nervy and awkward, he could never tell one Balkan from the other, he still got the Belgian and Dutch avatars confused, and Matthew was so damn quiet nobody would notice if he was even in the room or not. As for everyone else, well, they were all just weirdoes.

He turned his attention back to Emil, who was glaring daggers at the dribbling Italian beside him. I’m supposed to be a good guy, right? Part of the hero’s job is to cheer up depressed people, right? Or at least be nice to them anyway.

He stood up heavily, ambling over to the silvery-haired teen, who immediately shot round to face the approaching American. His strange pink eyes caught Alfred off guard, as they usually did. They were just so… pink… and striking. Rimmed by long, thick black eyelashes, and not to mention the fiery, rosy colour, they never ceased to make the American jump each time he saw them.

He flopped down in the chair usually reserved for Elizabeta, all the while being given a glare most people usually reserve for foully behaved toddlers in public places by Emil.

Jesus, talk about frosty... “Morning,” he beamed, in a rather generic fashion, smiling in his usual friendly way. Well, he could at least attempt to be nice.

Emil continued to stare at him, studying the happy-go-lucky American intently with his unusual eyes. There was a long pause before he finally spoke.

“Good morning,” he replied, blandly. There was a second pause, before he added with a heavy air of suspicion, “What is it?”

Alfred was slightly taken aback. Yes, it was true that he rarely spoke to the Icelander, but, man he’d barely said two sentences and already Alfred was convinced that Emil was some kind of European emo-kid. “What do you mean?” His voice sounded embarrassingly high, and it was obvious he had taken slight offence at the teenager’s sharp reply.

“You only talk to people when you want something. What is it?” He was bearing into Alfred with his weird eyes again, and the American could have sworn Emil was wearing mascara. That would at least explain his long eyelashes, anyway. And why they were black and not silver, like his hair.

“Well, I…” he didn’t really have anything to say. “I just, y’know, wanted to talk to someone…” He then realised that he couldn’t think of anything that he and Emil possibly both enjoyed. Way to go America, you just had to go and pick the country you have the least in common with.

Emil stayed quiet, suspiciously studying Alfred’s every move. “And why did you pick me?” His tone sounded less patronising this time.

Again, the American had nothing to say. “Uh, you seemed like the… best person?” He flailed an arm in the direction of the older Europeans, who had crowded around in a circle, no doubt discussing something that Alfred couldn’t be bothered with. “They all seemed to be a bit pissy this morning. Well, except for… he’s Denmark, right?” He pointed his thumb at Matthias, who was reclining against the wall, coffee in hand. One thing he hated about himself was that he only remembered first names of nations he saw regularly. And, though he would never admit it, he also got confused between the Danish and Dutch personifications. Well, they were both really tall and had light-coloured hair that stuck up, and the only difference he noticed is that one was more cheerful than the other.

Emil nodded nonchalantly. “Yes, he is.” He paused, turning his head so he could watch the older nations from across the table. “They never talk about things I could make an input on. Besides, it’s not like they expect me to get involved, and I probably wouldn’t want to anyway.”

Well, at least that’s one thing we can agree on. Alfred had never been a massive fan of the complicated mess that was European politics. Besides, the European avatars were difficult to work with anyway, mainly because they only sought to benefit themselves and the main reason for their co-operation with the US was because they were all terrified of him.

A thought flashed into the American’s head. “Do they even, y’know, talk to you that much? I mean, you never really seem to try and…” he flailed his arms when he couldn’t think of a word, “I dunno, interact with them? You always just… sit there.” Looking miserable and depressed, he continued inside his mind.

The Icelander continued to gaze across the table. “Of course they talk to me. They just talk to me too much.” He sighed dramatically, adding, “Sometimes you need to get away from them all.” Alfred could tell by his tone that Emil meant all the other Nordic nations and not just the two present in the room. Who can blame him? They’re all freakin’ weirdoes! From his brief encounters with the other Northern Europeans (in all of which, he had gotten their country names confused) he had learnt that one of them was an alcoholic, another had less emotion than a dead fish, one was about seven feet tall and had a glare that made people wet themselves with fear, and the last looked like a blond Justin Bieber had a pet poodle with a stupid name.

Talk too much…? Whatever. “They weird me out a bit. Y’know, the rest of your… I dunno, family? Would you call them that?” Man that sounded awkward…

“It depends on what my mood is.”

God this kid is a drag… “Do they annoy you, then? But isn’t that, like, y’know, normal? I mean, Britain and… that kid in the sailor suit are always arguing and pissing each other off and they’re family.”

Again, Emil sighed, eyes closed, head bowed and looking very exasperated. “It’s hard to explain. You wouldn’t understand.”

Alfred didn’t really know how he could respond to that answer.

The American turned away, noticing that the room was beginning to fill up. The Baltic States were huddled in their own little corner, no doubt trying to make some nervy pep-talk, and Francis had showed up early for once, still radiating his usual flamboyancy. Most of the Balkans had arrived, as had most of the ex-Warsaw Pact nations, bar Elizabeta and Felix, who more often than not showed up together.

There was another sound in the direction of the Icelandic teenager. “I really hate this room sometimes. It’s just too stuffy and claustrophobic.” He flashed a second glare at Feliciano, who was still asleep. “I don’t like who I have to sit beside either. They have a habit of talking over me like I’m not here.”

“Gets you down, huh?” Suddenly, Alfred felt somewhat guilty over all the times he’d failed to notice if Matthew was present at a meeting. Or a party. Or any social gathering in general.

There was another silence between them when Manon entered, for once not wearing her usual green bow, having changed to a black one, bringing her brothers with her. The sight of the towering Dutch avatar never failed to impress Alfred in the same was that his gravity-defying hair never failed to amuse him. “God, Holland’s really tall,” he said, stating the obvious out loud, “Have you ever wondered how tall he is?” Way to ask a weird question, America, of course he doesn’t think about stuff like that…

“He’s six-foot-two.”

Alfred turned his head sharply to face Emil. “How the hell did you know that?!”

The Icelander shrugged. “It’s a skill I learnt from my brother. He taught himself how to measure distances by sight, and I picked it up myself.”

Still gawping, the American turned to stare across the table at the mysterious and perpetually impassive Norwegian, who despite being engaged in a seemingly casual conversation, still manage to hold the same expression and posture Alfred could only imagine normal people would reserve for church. There were many things about the man that simply freaked the American out. Firstly, why did that curl behind his ear float? He knew that a few nations had small locks of hair representing a landmark or feature of their country, screw it, he was one of them, but why did the Norwegian’s curl just hover there for no reason? Secondly, why does he wear a hairclip? Also, why is he so God-damn emotionless?

It was about this point that Lukas, finally realising that he was being stared at , sharply twitched to face him.  Another unnerving factor about him was that, like his brother, Lukas had very unusual eyes that were such a deep shade of blue they were almost purple, and so dark in colour you could only make out his pupils when you were standing very close to him. From a distance, his glare was almost terrifying; two dark indigo voids blazing out of his ever calm face, and one always had the feeling that he was mercilessly patronizing you inside his mind.

Alfred shuddered, turning away, cheeks flushed from being caught gawping, and even then he was certain he could feel Lukas’s disapproving stare bearing into him. Emil turned his head slightly to one side, quietly observing the American, and never once taking those strange, owlish eyes off him.

“What are you looking at me like that for?” There was no hiding the mild suspicion in his voice.

Emil snapped back to reality, eyes widening brightly for a brief second as he jolted back violently, before he regained his precocious composure. “Oh, it’s nothing.” He secretly hoped that the American was as gullible as the characters in his TV shows.

A second passed, and for a fleeting moment Emil wondered if Alfred had understood what he said. Is my accent really that bad?

Eventually, the American’s face melted into its usual cheery self. “Oh, ok. It’s just you looked really weird there and I was wondering if something had happened.” His eyes flicked open and danced around the room, then checked his watch. “Jesus, we should be starting soon. D’you think everyone’s here?”

Emil had no time to answer before Alfred mumbled something incoherent, stood up abruptly, dusted off the seat he had been sitting on and turned back, winking, “Nice talking to you.” He then bounced back to his own seat at the head of the table, flopping into his chair, making a movement that suggested he wanted to put his feet on the table but was scared of getting scolded. Instead, he leaned forwards, loudly and melodramatically cleared his throat in an attempt to catch the attention of the other twenty-seven members in the room.

The room floated into motion as people ended their conversations and took their designated positions around the oval table. Chairs squeaked softly, people shuffled past each other, squeezing between the chairs and wall, mumbling apologies when they had to.

Alfred waited impatiently until the last nation was seated before he stood up; reaching for the sheet he’d written a pre-prepared introductory speech on. He never trusted himself to be able to make up a formal speech on the spot, and so would always have one ready in advance.

He faced his audience, glancing down to the opening lines of his speech, while waiting for everyone to be quiet so he could start talking. A hush gradually began to fall across the room. Then, he opened his mouth to speak.

A gunshot roared from behind.

Before he could even process the sound, the American jarred forward, slamming into the table, and blood oozing from the hole at the base of his skull.