((ooc:

Welcome to the Axis Powers Hetalia roleplay! I'm not really expecting many people to join seeing as the Subeta community isn't full of as many Hetalia fans as I had hoped... but I'm going to cross my fingers and hope for the best.

Plot: This roleplay takes place during the first few months of World War III. Now how did we get here? Imagine the Cold War differently - only instead of empty threats, they were fulfilled.

Russia and America have the world's greatest weapons at their dispense. With their economies still going strong, those who remain neutral are suffering under the weight of shrapnel from nuclear warheads.

Russia and America are equally determined for world conquest, swallowing up other countries in their path and pinning them against their mortal enemy.

Remember that all Neutral countries are economically unstable... being Neutral is very unwise. But ALL countries are neutral to start with, but you must choose...

...So, who's side are you on? -:- -:- -:-

Rules: 1) No Godmodding or Powerplaying. 2) No One-liners. Please put some thought into your post... 3) Violence and Romance are fine, but keep it PG-13... 4) You may NOT roleplay with yourself all of the time. Communicate with others. As such, I will be placing a TWO CHARACTER LIMIT on each roleplayer. 5) Fighting takes place in battles only; settle ooc disputes elsewhere. 6) Please SUBSCRIBE to the board! Make sure you keep up and post when you'll be on hiatus. 7) Post the word TOMATO in your first post to acknowledge that you've read my rules.

-:- -:- -:-

Your Skeleton should look like this:

Name: Their Name Country: Their country representation Appearance: A picture or Physical Description Allies: Self Explanatory Enemies: Try to be as close to real countries as possible Side: Russia, America, or Neutral?

-:- -:- -:-

My character:

Name: Ivan Braginsky. Country: Russia, or the Soviet Union Appearance: Click Allies: Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, China, Ukraine, Belarus and Cuba. Enemies: America. Side: Russia

-:- -:- -:-

England is reserved for Edwardthefullmetalone.

))

((TOMATO. Potatoes are better, though.

Name: Arthur Kirkland Country: England Appearance: Click Allies: America and those allied with him Enemies: Russia and those allied with him Side: America

May add Germany if I get impulsive...))

((Ahh... he's taken America's side? I'll have to change that...

The first post is just a way to stage the roleplay... and here it is: ))

-:- -:- -:-

World War III was lasting too long. Even in the dawn of its time.

America and Russia, with technological advances at their disposal, forced the world into a new era of war - the world was moving at a faster pace. Russia, his spheres of influence morphing into dictatorships in a number of Asian and European countries, had the world at his fingertips, spare the major European powers and the countries sprinkling Latin America and the North. Cuba was easy to coax, but America also managed to sneak a few nuclear warheads in Turkey, much against the nation's wishes.

The countries involved had no choice... Latvia and his older siblings quaked in the Slavic shadow. Ukraine merely shook her head at the sight of her younger brother whereas the youngest of the Slavic siblings Belarus, easily molded by her brother's wishes, became an excellent asset when brandishing her knife and keeping the others in line.

The Iron Curtain fell again... but the sea of red was slowly eroding it. France retreated deep within himself; he always had a terrible history when it comes to battles... Romano and his younger brother were easy pickings when war struck out - they were captured by America early on before Feliciano had the moment to grab the wooden pole of his trusty white flag. Romano was too tired and so accustomed to being captured that he went without a word... his eyes locked on Spain - his last hope for release looking off in the other direction, too afraid to intervene for the sake of his own people's well-being.

Those same eyes that had haunted the Spaniard since the moment the prison bars were shut on his precious little nation. Spain never recovered, his heart aching for the desire to see Romano again; aching for the hatred of America's decision, and aching for the hatred of this damned war. But his brain kept him pinned against Russia - all Ivan wanted was global conquest (as Spain once wanted back in the 1600s), but was America any better? He often questioned that...

Japan remained isolated in the ocean, taking a neutral position for sake of not repeating history with America (his scars from Hiroshima and Nagasaki still weren't fully healed). Being the world's most technologically advanced country, he sold weapons and robots to both side at equal distribution, but his older brother's looming red eyes on the shores of China quickened the pace of his heartbeat every day.

England, like his European counterpart, retreated deep within himself. His economy, though helped by America, was faltering. In times like this, he found Scotch to be the greatest of answers. He often sat awake in the middle of the night, his eyes heavy with burdens, his body aching from economic and political struggles (his body was never this bad since the Blitz over London), and a couple of empty Scotch bottles at his feet.

Russia simply sat on his throne of ice, his eagle-like eyes locked on his reflection in Alfred's glasses. Soon, things would fall into place... things always went his way.

((Yay! Alfred! tacklehugglesquish))

The vivid green of his eyes had become somewhat lifeless; his gaze was stern and cold, but in his eyes was the reflection of a tired nation that was growing more and more weary as the days passed. His deadpan face was barely visible behind his long bangs and gloved hands, which were now clasped together over his pale lips, which were drawn tightly as if they were holding in poisonous words. His brows furrowed together with frustration as he released two fingers of his right hand and raised them to massage the bridge of his nose, which calmed him down fairly well...on most days.

Today was not England's day.

He gave a heavy sigh and turned away from the window he was facing, lowering his hands from his face and allowing his stunning viridian eyes to slide open; he was secretly very proud of the fact that his eyes could strike almost any nation speechless upon their first meeting. That striking green gaze flickered down to the black gloves hiding his scarred hands from the world's prying eyes, and he gave a faint shake of his dusty blond hair. Shame danced through his eyes briefly as he raised his left hand to his face, studying it with care. The old wounds never did heal; the ancient scars on his pride from the Revolutionary War were just as prominent as the physical ones from the London Bombings he'd only recently received. He hated himself for being weak enough to receive those ugly things; a nation as strong as himself should never fall or be beaten back by silly little things as America and Germany. His hand fell back to his side and clenched into a determined fist, and his lips turned down in a small frown of disapproval.

"America will win this bloody 'war', or whatever it is," he spat, "or I swear that any diplomacy between myself and that Commie bastard Russia will disappear. I will not bear anymore scars because of that little hero's impudence..." He could have ranted on for hours, but it was best that he stopped; it was very easy to send him off into a childlike tizzy. After a few moments of silence he mentally applauded himself: he had not lost his temper. Or at least, he hadn't lost it yet.

((UGH, TOO LONG!))

The morning sun was barely visible through the endless sea of black and gray looming over the atmosphere, spewing little flecks of white on the sun-starved plains.

It was too quiet. Ivan stood before the window, his stillness rivaling the surrounding marble statues, engaged in a staring contest with the faded outline of his reflection. His skin, usually pale had grown sickeningly whiter, to the point where he questioned whether it was a ghost he was looking through. His body merely reflected the state of his country. On the outside, it was nothing but fear, idol, and glory. On the inside, it was cold... lonely... isolated. Ivan noticed his diminishing weight, his light blond hair slowly turning silver, and the dark circles under his eyes growing as black as the cloud cover.

This war was killing him...

Can I join?

Name: Carlotta Frieza de Naples (sorry Im Italian so sorry for long name) Country: Vatican City (its a country that gained independance from italy but its inside it) Appearance: About 6'4 and 130 pounds. She long black hair and sparkling brown eyes. She wears flexible black clothing and always have a serious look. Allies: Most of western Europe, Brasil, Mexico, and Maecerdonia (I think you spell it that way) {note: I really dont know if these are allies or enemies of Vatican City} Enemies: France, Peru, England, China, Mongolia Side: Neutral

((Ah, so I'll take it you're an oc? Feel free, but if you don't mind, could you be a City in Italy? North and South Italy already have cannons...))

((I feel like adding Germany...I'll do that when I come home from school, yeah? I'll edit this post rather than make a new one.

EDIT: Germany ho. Name: Ludwig Country: Germany Appearance: Click. Allies: Italia, anyone who has fought beside him in prior wars. Enemies: All who have ever opposed him...especially England. Side: Neutral (ask him, and he'll tell you he has his own side)

Finally.))

((I'm adding Toris as a filler...))

"R-Russia," the quiet hallway filled with the sound of hurried footsteps. The scarfed man turned just in time to see a confused and troubled Lithuania come pouring into the room. Toris had his hand against his chest, meaning he had been running frantically about the mansion looking for Ivan (the idea of it made Russia smile). Toris stopped before the larger nation, gulped for breath and made a pathetic bowing motion.

"Russia, I just received news... G-Germany has declared himself 'neutral'." He stiffened, seeing the change in Russia's expression. The Slavic nation tensed, his gloved hand balling into a fist. Lithuania flinched violently when fist met wall - one of the sunflower paintings crashed to the floor, spilling glass at their feet. Toris, in order to avoid Russia's wrath, quickly got on his knees and began picking up the shards of glass.

"That can be changed, Toris. Send a letter to Germany. I would like a meeting with him," and with those few words, the Slavic man was turning the corner, muttering 'kolkolkol...' under his breath.

"Y-y-yes... s-sir," Toris whimpered as one of the shards of glass pierced his finger and drew blood. He gathered up all the shards and abruptly made way to the study.

((sits in a corner eating popcorn drooling))

His hands folded behind his straight back as his blue eyes narrowed coldly. The loss of WWII was eating at the threads holding his broken pride together, breaking more and more of them because of this Cold War surrounding Europe. The dividing of Berlin didn't help, either; he was aware of a great hole growing within his heart because of it.

And now, as was to be expected, Russia wanted them to become one. Germany wanted to kill himself for even considering it.

He would not, however, stoop so low as to request help from England and America. They would only laugh at him more for his disgrace. But...perhaps some light conversation with at least one of them would help ease any remaining tensions? After all, he was slowly beginning to rearm. Perhaps he would even join NATO just to please them...eventually. Not just yet.

"Perhaps," he mused, "a meeting with America is in order."

A knock - a rather silent one at that - sounded at Germany's door. Lithuania, his feet quaking in his boots from both the cold weather (the globe seemed to have dropped a few degrees colder since the war started) and the looming presence of Russia - even though said nation was still back at home.

"Oh, please answer the door..." Lithuania prayed aloud, "...I-I really don't want to deal with Mr. Braginsky if I'm unable to deliver this..."

And with that, he knocked firmly against the door once again.

-:- -:- -:-

"Knock, knock, Velikobritanii," the Russian man purred, pushing England's front door open and inviting himself in. "You should really consider locking your door... especially when I'm around."

((I'm going to be gone until Monday night. I have my iTouch, but I can't promise it has Subeta capabilities... OTL))

Germany, slightly grateful to have some company, breezed to the door and pulled it open. "Oh, Lithuania..." he blinked once, slightly confused. "What on Earth could you be doing here?" he quickly ushered the shorter nation inside and shut the door.

"

England did not turn away from the mess of papers he had recently scattered all over the room, nor did he do much more than nod to acknowledge Russia's presence. After a moment he knelt onto the floor and began to pick up the papers, and words began to come from his (usually foul) mouth.

"Why are you here...?" he asked quietly; it was evident from the stench on his breath that the Englishman had been drinking heavily, probably scotch or a strong ale, to ease his apparent depression. "You should be plotting your next offense against America..."

"G-Germany!" Toris quickly allowed himself inside after abandoning his mud-soaked boots on the welcome mat.

The young man riffled through his messenger back to find the manila envelope with Russia's message in it. With reflexes that could rival lightning, he shoved the letter directly in Germany's face. "P-please, take it! Mr. Braginsky, h-he requests your presence..."

Toris knew better. He knew what kind of people both Ludwig and Ivan were... he knew that Ludwig would never succumb to Russia's demands, and when Ivan realized this, Toris would climb to the top of the ranks as Russia's new favorite punching bag - a place most often occupied by Latvia.

-:- -:- -:-

The Russian man chuckled darkly and took his place leaning against the side of his desk. Clunk. The half-empty Vodka bottle took its seat beside its master. He was holding his signature sink pipe, laced with blood stains from, presumably, the - now dead - guards standing outside of England's Estate.

"I should be, but I have more... important business to attend to. Perhaps you can help."

Germany blinked once. The fear in the younger nation's eyes twisted something inside his gut; it reminded him of the expression on Northern Italy's face when he had done something to anger him. He gave a small shrug and turned away from Lithuania, then spoke: "I will meet with him. If only to humor him, I will meet with him."

"

England's eyes, glazed over from the scotch burning inside him, narrowed as he turned to regard the Soviet. "And what," he spat, "is there that the great Russia would ask for from me? If it's anything to do with hurting America, I won't allow it!"

"Th-thank you, Germany," Toris managed a smile, knowing he was going to be spared. The first time he visited Germany back during the Nonaggression Pact between Russia and Germany, he always thought that Germany was a terrifying man, but now he realized how kind he could truly be (anyone willing to face Russia was God in Toris' eyes). North Italy, such a fragile creature, was able to soften Germany's exterior a little since the beginning of World War I.

Still, Toris felt that he owed Germany something... even though he was on Russia's side (mostly because he worried greatly for his little brothers while they were still in Russia's "care"), he wanted to see the Soviet empire collapse so he could be in the care of Poland again.

"Germany-san... you... do know why Russia wants to see you, right? I really... don't want to see another nation fall victim to Mr. Braginsky... like it happened to myself and my brothers years ago. Please... be careful. And whatever you do, don't give in to his demands."

-:- -:- -:-

"Da, of course. I have no intention of hurting America-kun... yet." He added a light chuckle to the end of his statement, "But it doesn't seem like America's taking very good care of his Mother Country. Otherwise he wouldn't be attempting to drown himself in Scotch, no? Your economy is suffering, Velikobritanii." When he finished his statement, he was standing - towering - over the other nation, his arms crossed tightly against his chest, and his face a little more serious.

"Your brother is neglecting you."

[edit] ((occ: I'm removing the Two character limit seeing as you and I are the only ones here, England. As such, I'm going to be both Russia and Lithuania - I still need to make a bio for him, but I'm also going to add Spain. Feel free to add more for you xD

Name: Toris Lorinaitis Country: Lithuania Appearance: Toris Allies: Estonia, Latvia, Poland and (unfortunately) Russia Enemies: Any enemies of Russia, much to his dismay Side: Russia

Name: Antonio Fernandez Carriedo Country: Spain Appearance: Antonio Allies: Italy and France Enemies: England Side: Neutral - He's an American sympathizer, but he's angry at America for capturing Italy.

[edit] Adding Spain's post now: ))

Antonio ripped through the green British countryside, his legs keeping at an insane pace: a pace he acquired from years of Bull Fighting and maintaining his title as Matador. His lungs were quaking, his limbs were shaking, but his muscles refused to stop the flow of adrenaline.

Never once had he imagined to come crawling back to the nation that frightened him the most: England.

Years of struggle (one-sided at least) made the two countries bitter enemies, but war called for different alliances, and he knew he needed England's help. Romano - who made no expressions apart from flirtatious (reserved for the ladies of course, Spain regretfully admitted) and anger - made sure to burn his terrified and vengeful eyes into Antonio's mind, and they lingered since the day the Vargas brothers were captured: the first real week of World War III. England made quite a history of himself with the countless sieges on Spain's "invincible" armada.

However, upon reaching England's exquisite estate, he noticed the bloodied corpses lying in the wake of a most terrible aura along the path to the front door. His first impulse was to flee, but being a Matador taught him to stare death right in the eyes and take it head-on. His foe could be in danger, and Spain had no intention of letting another man die. The Spaniard tried to mask his shivering composure as he neared the front door, noticing it to be open, and quickly inviting himself in.

He could hear two voices. One of course was England's, but the other was totally unrecognizable. It was only when he stepped into the room that he saw the nation that had been haunting the world's nightmares for the past few years: Russia. Antonio froze, noticing the mangled heap of scotch and clothing that was England before the Slavic nation.

"A-Arthur..."