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Post by Germany on May 15, 2011 2:19:15 GMT -5
Never before had Ludwig seen Ivan move so fast. One moment the oversized Bolshevik was wrestling with Gilbert in front of him — wrestling with his back fully turned to Ludwig — and he next his fist was hurtling towards his face.
White lightning shot before the German’s eyes as his left cheek erupted in agony and the sickening crunch of bone filled his inner ears; the blow thrust his head to the side and nearly knocked him off his feet. Stumbling for balance, he desperately fought the pain back, fought to clear the darkness from his vision and take enough notice of his surroundings to remain alive and useful at least a little longer. But more and more as the war drug on he was finding that he wasn’t as tough as he had been at its beginning, that his great strength along with his healing speed and overall wellness were ebbing with the loss of each battle, with the deaths of hundreds of thousands of his men.
The darkness and pain were slower to retreat this time: the Russians he’d been evading encroached on the black edges of his vision and came towards him as though in a dream, their features along with every other detail blurred as though he were looking at them through a bad lens. He was aware of Gilbert and Ivan swirling around behind him, also dreamlike.
The darkness was just starting to lift up when the closest Russian thrust the barrel of his rifle towards his chest. Ludwig quickly shunted to the side, missing physical contact by centimeters. It was a good thing, too — the end of the rifle kicked back and exploded with sparks and smoke: the damned Bolshevik had been trying to kill him at a ridiculously close range to lessen the chances of harming a “comrade”.
His face a mask of bitter rage, the rifleman raised his weapon like a club and prepared to swing for Ludwig’s head right as another Russian soldier sprung up to his side with a wicked-looking combat knife, ready to gut him like a trout. All around him the others swarmed in as though to smother him.
Gripped by a sudden wild panic, the German braced his gun-arm in front of him defensively, ducked his head, and charged the knife-wielder with his shoulder. Wild panic turned to smug satisfaction as his frame collided with his enemy’s, sending the latter flying through the air as though he’d been hit by a Spanish fighting bull into a large, pointy chunk of twisted metal building debris several meters away and knocking another man — or was it a woman? — sprawling to the side like a dervish who had seriously botched a dance. He came to a halt after only a few strides, his bootheels digging into the frozen dirt and kicking up a few clumps of hard, ice-packed snow as he spun to face the rest of the troop, bringing Prussia’s handgun to bear.
He heard his brother taunt Ivan with his nickname, saw him spring onto him like an enraged wildcat.
Was that blood on Gilbert’s face?
He couldn’t be sure — the angle was wrong and he had his own problems to worry about.
His charge had startled the unaffected Russians into backing off, but they were the type to recover quickly and were already bringing their weapons to bear: two rifles and a handgun. A string of the same curse word ran over and over again in Germany’s mind as he took this in — a quick glace to his left and he knew at once that there was nothing in the way to protect him from the gunfire; Prussia was attached to Russia piggy-back style and Russia had moved to a place where he was not at risk from his own men anymore. He could pick off one man, maybe two at most, before being shot himself, but not three.
Wait! The man I knocked aside when I charged the knife-wielder!
That guy was to the side and slightly behind him now. What he was planning was risky, but far better than the alternative of simply firing right here and now and literally playing Russian Roulette with Russians, hoping all three were having a slow off day.
Here goes.
Summoning all the strength he could to his aching, cold legs, he spun on a dime and dashed to the place where he remembered the man falling. The Soviet was standing again, but thankfully hadn’t had time to get his rifle up. A confused, then horrified look swept his face as he saw what was coming at him, but Ludwig had grabbed him before he had time to do anything and was holding him in front of him in true human-shield fashion right as the first bullet tore from one of the other soldiers’ guns.
Unfortunately for Ludwig’s new shield, the shot hit him somewhere in the vicinity of the chest — Ludwig felt him spasm, heard a wet, choking gasp escape his throat.
Damn. A living human shield was much better than a dying one: now his comrades would be more compelled to shoot him dead and end his misery.
But hey, a dead body still made for a nice bullet-absorber.
Risking a lightning-peek from behind the almost-a-corpse, Ludwig’s eyes narrowed with cold precision on the soldier who now looked to be the most threat.
It was a young woman, sadly.
Shame.
Ludwig quickly fired at her forehead and then sunk all the way down behind his shield once more. “I’ll finish these off, bruder!” he called out in a mix of Shaykomay and German, “You take care of Ivan!” It was what they were doing already, but he wanted to make sure that Gilbert knew that he was free to focus all his attention on Russia, that his little bro Ludwig had his back.
A bit optimistic, perhaps, but what else was there?
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Post by Russia on May 17, 2011 2:11:29 GMT -5
“Go and fuck yourself, untermensch.”
Not the worried, desperate reply Ivan had been hoping for. He had no idea what the German word meant, but-as always- it was safe to guess that it was not flattering. The implications of the entire sentence though were not flattering, so it fit in well enough with the insult.
Regardless, the move had been a success, and his defensive punch had hit Germany hard enough for Ivan to hear the sickening crack of something being broken. That would show the pesky German to attempt and shoot him while he had his back turned. Ivan gave a satisfied smile as he saw Germany stumble backwards. His enemy stunned from the blow, the Russian reached for his blade so that he could finish Germany off quickly while he was recovering.
“Hey! Vanya!”
Apparently, Prussia had realized the Russian had been about to kill his little brother. Out of pure instinct, Ivan turned his head at the sound of his diminutive being used by such a loathsome enemy. Eyes alight with a crazy sort of fury, his ideas of slitting the German’s throat were cut off by having to turn his attention back to Prussia too soon. He was not at all intimidated as the albino gave what Ivan figured to be a battle cry. Russia still fancied that he had the upper hand here. This was his home, and his people were fighting fiercely to defend it. Their passion and resistance was surely giving him some extra strength in this situation.
Germany's movements made Ivan turn his sights that way for just a moment too long. Before he had time to register what was going on, Prussia was suddenly grabbing him from behind, wrapping his arms around the Soviet’s neck. Ivan managed a slight gasp as his hand reached up to push it’s way under the other man’s grasp in an attempt to loosen the hold. The feeling of heavy boots kicking into his stomach made him flinch in pain, all the more desperate to break free from the other nation. Then his head was violently yanked back, and a cold sliver of metal was pushing up under the warm comfort of his scarf.
“You think they'll still call this place “Stalingrad” once the streets are running with filthy Slav blood?”
The blonde Soviet continued his attempts to free his throat from the other man. He hated the feeling of someone grabbing him so roughly in that area. He couldn’t quite place why, but being grabbed by the throat severely bothered him, all the more so when there was a blade involved.
“Maybe once this is all over, I'll go and find your sisters. I know Ukraine will cry like a bitch, but the question on everyone's lips is...do you think Belarus is a screamer...?”
The words sparked an incredibly intense emotion of rage in Russia. Thinking of himself as the lead Soviet and a protector of sorts to his siblings, the words evoked more reaction that the simple insults hurtled in regards to himself. Just in time, his hand shot up and gripped Prussia’s knife wielding wrist as roughly and tightly as he could. He couldn’t throw the other man over his shoulder due to the legs locked around his stomach, but he knew one way for sure to cause the man some pain and maybe force him to let go. Holding Gilbert’s wrist as best as he could to keep the blade from tearing across his flesh, Ivan let himself suddenly fall backwards.
Landing heavily on top of his enemy, the Russian wasted no time in using his strength to pry the Prussian’s grip off his neck with a sudden burst of pained strength. He struggled to his feet as quickly as he could manage, taking in some heavy breaths and tightening his scarf to re-cover his throat better as he turned to face Gilbert once more.
“Пошёл на хуй.” He all but growled at the enemy nation in response to his threats and insults. Ivan never was the best at witty and hurtful comebacks, but what he lacked in insults he more than made up for in aggression and ferocity. He would physically make Gilbert and Ludwig regret their hurtful words and implication’s before the fight was up.
Somewhere nearby he heard Ludwig yell something in a mixture of languages, but he was far to distracted to catch all of it. He didn’t need to though, the last sentence had him enraged enough as he withdrew his dagger from its sheath. Casting a quick look over to the other brother, he was pleased to see his soldiers trying to take the nation down. More were coming too, the familiar white-covered shapes making him smile despite the situation. Hopefully they would be able to distract Ludwig until he was done with Gilbert. What he needed was a gun…something to use at range since he was dealing with two other nations.
Dagger in hand, he lunged for Prussia, giving him as little time to recover as he could afford. He brought his blade up in an attempt to gouge it into the albino’s midsection, his other hand reaching out for the white hair of his enemy so that he could get a hold on him.
Moving fairly fast for such a large man, Ivan attempted to deliver a multitude of stab wounds to his opponent with the sharp blade. He had never gotten Gilbert’s knife completely out of his hand, but Ivan had no qualms whatsoever in engaging him in a knife fight all the same. Happy images of stabbing the nation into oblivion and then gouging his vile red eyes out of his skull filled his mind as he tried to maim the Prussian with each powerful slash of the blade.
Sadly, to fight Prussia he had to leave Germany to fight with his men, and odds were good that the German would be able to put a good number of them down. Ivan had no idea how much time he had to kill Prussia and focus on Germany again, but he couldn’t very well release Gilbert now and worry about the other brother. He had to expose his back for attack, and hope that luck was on his side this fight, and that his soldiers could take Ludwig out before the other nation could come to his brother’s aid. From his angle, he couldn’t even see Germany, and would not know if the other was suddenly free to attack.
Prussia had been doing an admirable job of blocking some of the stabs from hitting home. Even so, the Russian kept up his furious assault relentlessly, rewarded with a few successful slices to the other nation’s arm and chest. But they just were not deep enough and at some point in the struggle he felt the sharp pain of Prussia’s blade tearing into his upper arm. Then, it seemed that fate decided to smile down upon him in an unexpected sort of way. The loud noise of some form of heavy artillery shook the frozen landscape suddenly, distracting both him and apparently Prussia as a chunk of the nearby church broke free and crashed to the ground. Covered in a new fine coating of dust and snow, Ivan recovered from the distraction just a second or so before Prussia. It was all the time he had needed to make a successful slash for the other man’s throat.
The dagger hit home, tearing a deep red gash into the albino’s pale flesh. His hand coated in the gore, Ivan was quick to push the Prussian off, backing up a few steps in the process and tripping up a bit on the rubble.
__________________________ ((Okay, due to agreement by all parties involved in this thread, I had permission to mildly puppet Prussia and "kill" him. Not that countries can die really, but I swear that wasn't just me powerplaying him. XD
Translations: Пошёл на хуй is basically "fuck you" or "fuck off." Feel free to attack me too Germany. If you want. <3 ))
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Post by Germany on Jul 14, 2011 21:39:01 GMT -5
The body of the dead soldier shook violently under a barrage of gunfire. Germany’s iron grip on its neck kept it in place in front of him, but he knew it wouldn’t be able to protect him much longer. The nearest safe-looking cover was several strides away across dangerously open ground inside the gutted remains of the building he and his troop had used to sneak up on the church. Wounded, outnumbered, and essentially stranded in a dangerous spot with his closest ally thoroughly engaged and unable to help him, he was in a severely compromised position where it was all he could do just to avoid further injury. He didn’t dare peek out from behind his makeshift shield to see if that last shot had hit its intended target, but judging from the rate of close-range gunfire — especially shotgun fire — it was probably safe to assume it had. Which leaves two, maybe three… He glanced to his right, was satisfied by the sight of the soldier he’d charged earlier lying still amongst the wreckage. It was possible the man was still alive, but if he was he was no longer an active threat. …two. Normally two enemy soldiers weren’t much of a match for Ludwig, even when he was alone and disadvantaged. But when those two were so close that pulling off even a halfass-aimed shot carried with it such a ridiculously inflated risk of instant death — and firing blindly carried a proportionally equal risk of losing a hand — killing them both before they killed him seemed insurmountable. He was incredibly lucky he’d managed to cut them down to two before they’d had time to fully gain their bearings after he’d taken up his human shield. Hell, he was incredibly lucky he’d lasted this long with such inadequate protection — the body in front of him did not, unfortunately, belong to a fat man, or even a large-framed man. There wasn’t much to hide behind. All at once his enemies stopped firing on him. A few excited, hurriedly-spoken words of Russian were exchanged, and even with the background noise of more distant battles he heard the crunching footfalls of more soldiers swiftly approaching. Fick. As if things were not bad enough already. I have to make a run for it. If I don’t I’m dead. He hated how helpless he felt right then. Despised the cold, shameful, guilt-ridden panic that fell over him as much as the idea of leaving Prussia to fend for himself against Russia and a fresh crop of enemy soldiers. But he had not yet lost his ability to think rationally, and rationally he knew that he was no use to his brother and fellow Germans taking a long nap in the dirt and eventually being teleported against his will hundreds of kilometers away to wherever his boss happened to be at the moment. If he could just make it into a building he could turn around and provide some measure of cover-fire for Gilbert. Given the circumstances, throwing the corpse at his enemies and running was a sound strategy. Still firmly gripping the neck of his shield, he hastily slipped Prussia’s gun into one of the outer pockets on his trenchcoat and began reaching under the unfortunate Russian’s body. All at once the air exploded into a loud ‘BOOM’ that made the ground tremble and shook Ludwig’s hand off-course. Temporarily forgetting to be careful, the somewhat shell-shocked German looked up to see one corner of the church collapse, sending up a sizeable cloud of dust the color of dirty dishwater. Well. That was a bit of luck. For once Ludwig was glad the church was Russian-held; hopefully a large number of them had just been killed or seriously wounded. “You’re the last of your unit, German,” a cold voice called out in thinly-accented German, “All your friends are dead. Surrender now and we’ll spare your life.” Ludwig’s heart sank. With a lurch of dread he turned and looked towards the last place he’d seen Gilbert and Ivan locked in combat. It was just as he’d feared. His brother lay motionless on the ground, a pool of deep scarlet billowing out rapidly from under his neck. A smirking, victorious Ivan stood a few paces behind him, hand and murder weapon both coated in gore. For a moment, Germany glared at his violet-eyed foe with a scorching, silent rage that made his blue eyes blaze like similarly-colored stars. Images of himself shooting Russia until he was sufficiently incapacitated then racing up and violently finishing him off with a multitude of slashes and stabs of his SS ceremonial dagger flashed through his mind in graphic, bloody succession. God, he wanted to do that so badly — that ruthless asshole wouldn’t be smirking then. Of course, Gilbert wasn’t truly, permanently dead. False death was a normal, inevitable part of a nation spirit’s life — particularly a nation spirit with a taste for war and frontline fighting — and Ludwig had both ‘died’ himself and witnessed his brother and other nations ‘die’ enough times to not to be too greatly affected by it. He hated seeing Gilbert get hurt or ‘killed’ — especially by someone like Ivan who derived such sadistic pleasure and ego-boosting self-satisfaction from it — but any sorrow he felt in the moment was overshadowed by the enormous comfort of knowing that he’d soon see him alive and ( relatively, as the case sometimes was ) well again. It would take more than a cheap stab-wound to kill a nation as tough and enduring as Prussia once and for all. Be that as it may, Prussia’s most recent false death was more than a sad and infuriating affair for a loving brother — it was a devastating blow to the Stalingrad war effort. The odds had already been against Germany and his band of troops taking the church before Prussia had arrived on the scene to help them; now that he was gone the situation was even more hopeless. Germany himself might very well be the only combat-able German within a sizeable radius, and he was injured. The Russians had to be feeling pretty secure for the time being if they felt comfortable enough to stand out in the open and attempt to take him alive. One of the Russians — possibly the one who had spoken a moment ago — called out to Ivan. * Ludwig missed the details of what he was saying, but he did catch the Russian words for “comrade” and “general”. Only one of the “general”s was preceded by “comrade”, which was the usual way Russians headed references to one another. Taken in context with the man’s proud, excited tone, it didn’t take much to see that he was either complimenting his general on a job well done or bragging about the German general he imagined they had just captured. Imagined being the key word here. “You expect me to believe that?” Ludwig called out in German. The words were but a distraction: the last was still in the process of leaving his mouth when he sprang to life in a sudden burst of energy. Moving with an unnatural swiftness for any normal person in his condition, he shoved his hand under one of his corpse-shield’s legs, leapt to his feet, and threw the body horizontally. The next few seconds whizzed by in a blur of motion and everything happening at once. Ludwig lit off like a rocket towards the gutted building he’d been through earlier, running as fast as he dared. He had just enough time to register the body he’d thrown strike the nearest pair of Russians and knock them flat on their backs before he’d passed them. Gunshots! Gunshots from all around! A flash of white fire from the window and one of the Russians that had just begun to move into his way fell over. The familiar face of an ally ducked out of view under a window just as another rifle fired on the Russians from somewhere on the second floor. Some of them made it! Ludwig was pleasantly surprised: this was more than he had expected. A tiny flame of hope ignited within him: the Red who had told him his friends were all dead had clearly been mistaken. Sadly, just as quickly as it had come, his new hope was dampened. Russia would give chase. No way he wouldn’t. The only thing he could do to try to keep what few men he had left alive was keep the big brute’s attention on him. “You haven’t won yet!” he yelled in strong, defiant Shaykomay over his shoulder, knowing that his nation nemesis would be the only one who could make sense of it. He was inside the building now: he could see two of his men sniping from a few rooms’ lengths down the rubble-strewn corridor to his immediate right. It wouldn’t do to go down that way — not enough cover, and anyway he wanted to keep his oversized problem as far away from his soldiers as he could. Instead he kept straight, leaping through gaps in destroyed walls and migrating towards the center of the building. A building such as this that was full of more holes than Swiss cheese wasn’t very good at keeping sunlight out. Mixed with shadows, the warm rays of dawn cast most rooms — or what was left of them — in a pale, dusky grayish light that was just good enough for seeing in. Along the way Ludwig passed the bodies of a few freshly-killed Russians — all had their throats slit — and the bodies of two of his own that looked to have been dead for weeks. He didn’t back look to see if Ivan was following. He didn’t need to. Problem was, how did he lose Ivan long enough to get the upper hand? As if in answer, a big hole opened up in the second floor ahead. Perfect. Gaining height was often equal to gaining advantage in combat. All he had to do was make it up there and whirl around to shoot Ivan the moment he tried to follow. Here goes. Do or die. Heart racing, Ludwig gathered his legs beneath him and launched himself up to the second floor. He landed on some shaky, half-burned wooden floorboards that creaked loudly in complaint. Without a moment’s delay he dashed into the nearest corner and turned around, pressing his back up against it like a cornered rat and drawing Prussia’s pistole. ________________________________________
A/N:* "Nice work, Comrade General! This one is a general too! We should take him alive, right?" ---- Sorry, I didn't have the time to figure out the proper Russian for it. ^^;
Thanks for letting me puppet your soldiers a little, Russia! You may of course do the same to Germans as needed.
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Post by Russia on Jul 19, 2011 14:30:04 GMT -5
For a few moments-despite chaos around him-all Ivan could do was stare in wild fascination at the crimson that decorated his hand and blade. He had done it. He had taken out one of the biggest threats to his people here in the city. Though Gilbert was not truly dead in the human sense, a feeling of immense pride still blossomed in the Russian’s chest at the realization that he had won their brief fight. It was the same feeling of glee that he always felt after defeating a foe of equal or similar standing as himself. Though he liked to think he was a far superior nation than many of the enemy nations he fought with, he still recognized that killing someone like Gilbert was more impressive and brag worthy than killing some normal human soldier.
Then the feeling of crazed euphoria started to fade and Ivan realized that he still had Germany to take care of. Not to mention that he and his people would have to kill the other Germans that were still infesting parts of his ruined city. So despite having taken out part of the problem, there was still a lot more to be done and a lot more kills to make.
Ivan turned his gaze from his red-tinged blade, his eyes focusing on the area where a group of his men had been engaged against Ludwig. With the dust from the recent collapse hanging heavily in the air, it was hard to see anything from his distance. The Soviet General did hear the sounds of gunfire erupting from the vicinity, followed not too long after by someone shouting in German. It wasn’t Ludwig though, strangely enough. Keeping the dagger in hand, Ivan carefully started towards the group, his eyes scanning the ground every so often for any sort of gun that might have ammunition left in it. Blades were nice, but they were a bit too close and personal sometimes and Ivan was still feeling rather sore from struggling with Prussia. Shooting Germany in the head sounded much more appealing.
Advancing towards his comrades, that same voice that had been speaking German called out through the dust again, this time in Russian. The man complimented Ivan on a job well done and then proceeded to suggest taking “this one” alive. Russia immediately disagreed with the idea. He didn’t want Germany alive at all. With a rival nation, dead really was the better option to ensure victory. Germany was a fierce warrior for sure, and would not allow himself to go quietly. Trying to force him to do so would only result in the deaths of more Russians.
The dust was starting to clear more when Ivan finally saw Ludwig-holding up some poor dead comrade as a human shield. He was surrounded from the looks of it, and Ivan figured that taking him down would be a fairly easy task now. Then Germany said something in his native tongue and before Ivan knew what was happening the other nation was throwing the dead man towards his soldiers, knocking two of them onto their backs before they could fire upon him. There was a flash of gunfire and another comrade fell to the frozen ground, clutching his stomach in pain.
Ivan started off at a run after the German nation regardless of the fact that some of Germany’s men must have still been alive and hidden in the gutted remains of buildings. Re-sheathing the dagger and swiping the gun from the recently injured comrade who was surely not going to need it where he was going, Ivan poured all his strength into trying to catch up to his Aryan foe. The weapon he had just procured had some shots in it, but he was not sure how many yet and being closer to the enemy would push the odds of hitting him more in Ivan’s favor.
“You haven’t won yet!”
Not having the breath to retort quickly, Ivan let the comment slide. He would show Germany just how wrong he was about that. As far as he was concerned, he had won the moment he had killed Prussia. Germany was just delaying the inevitable by running off and making Ivan chase him down before killing him.
All too quickly the German made it to the ruins of a building, dodging inside even as Ivan raised his gun to try and get a good shot at him. He paused as the Ludwig’s blonde head vanished behind the safety of stone. Lowering his gun, he slowed his pace and tried to get out of the immediate line of fire that could easily come from the window. He knew from before that there was at least one other German in there with Ludwig, probably more. Not particularly afraid of a few German soldiers, Ivan entered the ruined building not long after Ludwig, ducking down for a moment and aiming the pistol down one of the corridors quickly in case someone else was in there ready to take aim. But apparently the Germans were in different places, and a few shots echoing down a different hall confirmed that suspicion.
The sound of hurrying footsteps from nearby caught the Russian’s attention and he started forwards again cautiously, trying to follow the sound as best as he could since he had lost sight of Ludwig just before entering the building ruins. The sound of an empty gun clicking nearby drew his gaze instantly and Ivan fired a shot at the German who had taken aim at him but apparently ran out of bullets. It was unnerving to think that if the man had not ran out of ammunition at such a moment, Ivan would be taking a trip to see Stalin already.
After checking the dead German’s pockets for any ammunition that was the proper caliber for his own pistol, Ivan moved on, sticking close to one of the walls as he entered a room full of dead Russians. Of course the German he had killed had not had much in the way of 9MM rounds left in his pockets, but Ivan had acquired two new bullets that the man must not have been able to load in his own handgun fast enough. So he had one more bullet than what he had possessed upon entrance. He had wasted no time in loading both the bullets into his pistol.
There was a thump from dead ahead signaling that he was still on Germany’s trail. Well, either his or some other German’s. Slowing down even more, Ivan noticed that the immediate area had went deathly quiet. He didn’t like the sound or feel of it at all. Then his eyes came to rest on a large hole in the second floor. Stopping in his tracks, his violet eyes focused on the opening with slight distrust. Ludwig was up there. He just knew it. The problem was, he couldn’t see up there to know where his foe was exactly. Jumping up would be suicide if he did not already know where to shoot first.
Maybe there was another way up? There had to be since the building was not designed to have a hole in the floor as the entrance point to the upstairs. But finding it could cost him valuable time. He could lose his target if Ludwig moved away while he was looking for another way up. Maybe he could distract Ludwig first? It was a long shot, but worth a try in this case. Moving around the hole in the floor, Ivan choose an random area in the floor and opened fire with a couple shots straight up and through the weak wood. The force of the bullets penetrating the wood sent dust raining down onto the pale Russian, but he didn't bother wasting time trying to clear it from his face. Instead he was in motion for the hole again, gathering his strength and leaping for the opening full force. Hopefully Ludwig would think he was still underneath in the area where the shots had penetrated. If not, he risked taking a bullet to the face while trying to home in on his target.
No sooner had he jumped up and onto the weakened second floor than he was firing a few shots blindly in the first direction he saw a flash of blonde. With no time to aim straight since jumping up, he was not sure if he hit his target or not, but he did feel a sensation of pain from a bullet tearing into his side and then another grazing his thigh. With a sharp intake of breath at the feeling, he charged towards the German in an attempt to close the gap between them since his gun was either empty or very well near it at this point. ________________________________ ((Don't kill me for any typos or sloppy wording. XD I wrote this quickly last night when I was sleepy. Also, thanks for permission to puppet some Germans mildly.))
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Post by Germany on Jul 22, 2011 21:28:19 GMT -5
He was coming. The whole time he had been running Ludwig had heard him thundering after him, never more than a couple of rooms’ lengths behind. He would reach the hole any moment now, had probably seen him jump up.
Back still firmly pressed up against the corner, heart galloping in his chest, Ludwig crouched down to make himself less of a target and pointed the muzzle of Gilbert’s pistol where he judged Ivan’s torso would be if he were to jump up here with him. Any moment now…
The freezing air bit savagely into his head-wound, turning exposed bone into a stinging, icy conduit which made the entire right side of his head ache brutally. Grimacing, he forced himself to keep his gloved hand steady, his pistol and eyes both trained on the hole and whatever may emerge from beneath. Even now he was well aware that it wasn’t the only place from which death could come — though it was by far the most likely — and he tried to keep an eye and ear out for possible threats that may arrive from other directions as well, but the intense pain made it difficult to concentrate on his surroundings. Vaguely, he felt freshly-frozen streams of blood clinging to his cheek, jaw, and chin, weighing down on his now cloven ear and making the hair around it heavy and sticky. The wound had not yet finished clotting; in places he could faintly feel the still-liquid blood trickling down his head as well. It was all cold and uncomfortable, and for a moment the most selfish part of him half hoped he’d get ‘killed’ in this battle so he could take a nice, hot bath when he woke up safely within his own borders.
He emphatically shoved the disgraceful thought to the darkest reaches of his consciousness, deeply ashamed and disgusted to have ever gotten it in the first place. What he was doing here and now was infinitely more important than his own temporary personal comfort and well-being. If what was left of his tattered Sixth Army was to have any chance of victory at all in Stalingrad he had to kill Ivan and capture the church. That much was certain. If he failed they would perish, and even when his human body had regenerated to show no outward signs of injury the loss would leave its mark on him in the form of further reduced strength and stamina and more intense lingering, recurrent aches and pangs. It would be a crippling blow to the Axis war effort, especially since he knew better than to think Italy and Japan would be able to compensate. Perhaps if Kiku and/or his boss hadn’t gone out and provoked America into the war, but there was no point in imagining fantasy scenarios.
…What’s taking him?
A few seconds had passed since Germany had taken up his stance in the corner. That was more than enough time for Russia to catch up with him. That he hadn’t jumped through the hole yet was worrisome.
As if to address his concerns gunshots rang out from below, immediately drawing the nation’s eyes to the floor a few meters off to his left where small chunks of wood were exploding up and outward.
Well, this is different. Instead of coming up to get him, Ivan was blindly punching holes in the floor.
Ludwig swallowed quietly, unease flickering over his face as he watched the danger zone. As much as he hated to admit it, Ivan was no coward. This wasn’t like him.
A couple of extremely hurried, heavy footsteps warned him at the very last split-second of his enemy’s plans, and his eyes shot back to the hole just as a blur of Russian flew up out of it.
Ludwig opened fire on him immediately. His first shot was the hasty result of surprise and urgency, and if it hit the large body at all he didn’t see where. Far more obvious was the flashing at the tip of Ivan’s pistole, which panicked him into pumping the trigger of his own twice in rapid succession while he attempted to aim. Unfortunately, both appeared to miss.
Damn!
Ivan must have ran out of bullets — either that or he was having another of his hallmark rage-driven attacks of insanity — because he suddenly stopped firing and started charging.
Aha! Now I’ve got you! [/color] Stricken with glee at this swift and fortunate turn of events, Ludwig aimed straight for the space between his enemy’s eyes. When he actually had the chance to aim properly he was a pretty good shot, and at this close of range especially he was confident his next bullet would be lethal. He pulled the trigger, expecting to drop Ivan to the floor like the Soviet cow he was.
It was not to be; instead of the satisfying report of a bullet being fired the click of an empty pistole rose up to greet his ears. The gun remained motionless in his hand.
Scheiße! He could have sworn he had had at least one bullet left, but then again, he’d gotten the gun off of Gilbert and hadn’t had the chance to ask or check for himself and see if it was fully loaded. He’d just assumed it was.
The Maschinenpistole hung at his chest, also empty. He had ammunition for both weapons tucked away in the inner pockets of his trenchcoat and spread out within the pockets of his uniform, but until he put a decent amount of distance and some cover between himself and Ivan he would never get the few seconds he needed to reload.
Mentally scolding himself for failing to reload while he’d had the chance, he dropped the pistole, sprung to his full height, tore his trenchcoat open, and went for the SS ceremonial dagger strapped to his belt. His fingers had just wrapped around the handle when Russia’s fist flew at his face. Germany instinctively ducked and rammed his head into the other man’s stomach for all he was worth, kicking back against the wall with one foot to give the blow extra power.
The move put some distance between him and Ivan, but it had the unfortunate side-effect of sending him skidding helplessly across the floor on his belly like a freshly-caught trout whose hook had come free midway through the fisherman flinging it out of the water. He absorbed the brunt of the impact in his arms and chest, which not only hurt like hell, but knocked the wind out of him. The floor was naturally littered with debris and he’d had the misfortune to land on something hard and somewhat cylindrical which, judging from the extreme pain, had broken the wrist of the hand gripping the dagger, the hand that was now trapped between his body and the object.
Breathless and temporarily beyond all coherent thought, he lay where he had fallen. It felt like several minutes had passed before he had enough wind to climb to his knees, though he knew that in reality it probably hadn’t been that long. A broken wooden chair-leg lay in the spot where his arm and wrist had been, the source of his misery.
Ludwig gave it a dirty look. He attempted to finish drawing his dagger, and found very quickly that his right hand wasn’t working quite as it should and even the slightest movement took the already-intense pain in his wrist up a few levels.
His wrist really was broke.
To make matters worse, Ivan was coming for him; he heard his heavy footfalls and looked up to see him running towards him again, eager for the kill.
Great.
Just fucking great.
Mentally forcing back the pain, Ludwig pulled his dominant hand away from the dagger and drew it from its sheath with his left. He was by no means a leftie, but he had had a little practice wielding a weapon with his left hand before, and he hoped — perhaps foolishly so — that it would be enough to at least save his life. He rose to his full height as quickly as his aching body and still-sore back would allow, which was still fairly quick, but noticeably slower than usual to anyone who was used to fighting or sparring with him. He could only pray Ivan wouldn’t notice, that he wouldn’t realize just how much of an advantage he had right now.
Still, disadvantaged or not, he wasn’t going to go down without one hell of a fight. He would either kill Ivan or die trying.
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Post by Russia on Jul 25, 2011 18:14:44 GMT -5
Even as he charged Ludwig like the madman he was, Ivan brought his gun up and attempted to fire another shot at the German. Just as he had suspected though, the pistol gave a metallic click and nothing more. The weapon could still be of some use though-Ivan had a fondness for using empty guns as billy clubs when he was close enough- so he quickly stashed the weapon back into the holster under his coat where his own handgun had once been.
Before he could quite reach the German and tackle him to the ground, Ludwig had aimed his weapon again and squeezed the trigger. Ivan had tensed up in anticipation of the shots to come, but instead of feeling the sharp pain of any more bullets, he heard the clicking of an empty firearm. With a feeling of relief that he was not about to be fighting with a few extra bullet wounds at best, the tall blonde was finally right up on the German foe, his fist flying for the other man’s face. Instead of the rewarding feeling of flesh bruising under his might, Ivan was stricken with the dull pain of being rammed in the gut by his opponent. He had certainly not seen that move coming, and the force of the impact not only sent him sliding backwards with considerable force, but also knocked the air from lungs.
Feeling as though he had been hit by a battering ram, Ivan staggered back against the wall breathlessly. The dull pain was far worse in his opinion than any of the bullet wounds he had procured over the course of the battle, and the Soviet struggled to regain his breath and keep his eyes focused on his enemy. At least Germany was bullet-less now too. That much he could still be thankful for. That, and the fact that he had not had anything to eat in ages. Now was one of the few times when the starvation issue in Stalingrad was actually a good thing.
Germany had done himself harm with that move as well it seemed. Violet eyes instantly re-focused on the downed German with murderous intent. He sure hoped that Ludwig had cracked a few ribs as a result of his crazy battering ram maneuver. Taking in another deep breath, Ivan finally moved away from the wall, starting towards his enemy just as Ludwig began to move again.
The Nazi had drawn a dagger and was rising to his feet, but Ivan noticed something was definitely wrong with his opponent. For one thing, Ludwig had the blade in his non-dominant hand. Having fought with Germany many times since World War I, Ivan knew which hand he usually used. When he was focusing on a fight, small details about his enemies did not usually escape him. Whereas Ivan himself could use both hands relatively interchangeably for his weapons, he knew Germany could not. Which meant something must have been wrong with his dominant hand. As if that fact was not enough to make the Russian smile like the Devil, his Aryan foe had also been slower to get back up than usual as well. He must have been feeling all those injuries he had accumulated since they had started fighting.
Slowing his pace, Ivan gave the German a wild look of pure glee, ignoring the pain from his own injuries for the time being. He had not suffered as much trauma as Ludwig had yet, despite his questionable and sometimes downright crazy battle antics. Add that to the fact that if there was one thing he was good at it was blocking out and ignoring pain, and the odds suddenly looked far more in his favor.
“You don’t look so good, Germany.” He taunted quietly as he drew nearer, his hand latching onto his own blade again and withdrawing it from it’s sheath. Prussia’s blood still tinted the steel weapon, giving Russia even more confidence as his eyes played over it before returning to Ludwig. With his current angle he noticed the wound on Germany’s head for the first time, making his eyes seemingly shine with sadistic joy. Victory was surely in hand for the day.
There were more sounds of gunfire going on outside, but Ivan blocked out all other distractions, focusing purely on Ludwig for the time being. “I think you need to visit your boss again, Ludwig. Maybe this time you end up at his feet you can beg him to be sensible and surrender to us. Surely by now you know what a mistake you made by double-crossing me.” the ashen blonde’s tone was quiet, but carried with it an air of extreme confidence. He didn’t just think he was going to be killing Ludwig soon, he knew it.
Lunging forwards without warning, the sadistic Russian lashed out with his own blade, trying to slice for Germany’s left hand. Of course he expected the German to try and block to the best of his ability, but Ivan knew that with two relatively un-injured arms, he had the upper hand here. His first slash of the blade struck against Ludwig’s own dagger, but he still drug the weapon up and towards the German’s face. Almost at the same time, he reached around with his free hand and tried to close it over Germany’s knife hand. ______________________________________ ((I twitch at how lame this one turned out. >< Sorry Lud, I had a bit of writer’s block while I was trying to figure things out here. The next one will be better. Oh, and I still want to torture you a bit. ~ Just need to wait for an opportune moment.))
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Post by Germany on Jul 28, 2011 20:24:25 GMT -5
So much for wishful thinking. By the wild, frighteningly gleeful expression on his face Germany knew his flaxen-haired foe had picked up on his fresh handicap and dangerously weakened condition. Slowing his stride, he came at him with the confident, predatory playfulness of a hyena closing in on a gravely wounded ungulate; Germany could almost envision him as an oversized version of the creature, tongue lolling and eyes shining with cold, wicked glee. Hyenas were strictly African, but Ivan embodied their spirit so well that they should have been his national animal. “You don’t look so good, Germany.” Ivan withdrew his own dagger. The blade was still wet with Gilbert’s blood. Whether he was honestly out of bullets or simply toying with him, Ludwig was extremely grateful that Ivan wasn’t shooting at him. He shifted his own dagger into a better position in his hand, angled it for powerful sideways and downward-diagonal strokes. Thanks to Gilbert’s militant training he wasn’t half-bad at fighting with the dagger — or swordsmanship in general — but even with his right hand he wasn’t especially skilled, either. Gilbert was far better than he was, and probably Ivan too since they were both centuries older than him and decent firearms were a relatively new innovation. Even so, he reminded himself, he could mortally wound Ivan with a single slash. Decapitate him, even, if he could get close enough. “I think you need to visit your boss again, Ludwig. Maybe this time you end up at his feet you can beg him to be sensible and surrender to us. Surely by now you know what a mistake you made by double-crossing me.”How dare he! Everything about the words and the condescendingly quiet, smug manner in which they were spoken set Germany’s blood afire. “You’re the one who double-crossed me!” he hissed, standing his ground and closely watching Russia’s body-language for the slightest hint of the attack he knew was coming, “And you’re damn lucky I’m not the one calling all the shots for my military, because if I was you’d have been flying my flag months ago!”The attack came lightning-fast. Red-tainted silver streaked to slice off Ludwig’s dagger-wielding hand, and even though he’d been expecting such a move he still barely got his blade up in enough time to block. Not in the least daunted, the blood-crazed Russian merely ran his blade up the length of the SS dagger, forcing him to turn his weapon at the last possible moment to save his hand with the crossguard. Two close calls in rapid-fire succession sent a fresh jolt of panic through Ludwig; he was being far too slow on the draw. Forget getting in close enough to decapitate the big brute: if he kept fighting like this Ivan would make mincemeat of him in no time. Jerking backward, he tried to put a little more space between him and his mortal enemy, but strong fingers closing around his wrist brought him to a jarring halt. Even in as much pain as he was, Ludwig still possessed enough wits to suppress the automatic reflex which would have him swinging at Ivan’s head with his useless right hand, and to know that trying to break free by the strength of his left arm alone would be futile. Rather than waste precious energy trying to wrestle his wrist free while Ivan butchered his weapon out of it he literally threw his whole body into lashing out with a knee at Ivan’s crotch. The blow connected solidly and Ivan let go, causing him to fall backward from his own momentum and disrupted balance. Keeping his head up, he took the impact in his back and rolled to the side. Initially, Ludwig’s only concern had been to free himself from his enemy’s iron grip as soon as possible, but now he couldn’t help noticing that in doing so he had just opened up the perfect opportunity to kill him. Human or nation-spirit, few things in life were as painful or distracting to a male as damaged goods: he wasn’t going to get a better chance than this. Fueled by the powerful combination of adrenalin and life-or-death desperation, the Nazi nation recovered his feet almost instantly and lunged at Ivan for all he was worth, dagger poised to shish-kebab his throat, his eyes as cold as hailstones, his pale, bloodied face cast in stone ruthlessness. _____________________________________________
A/N: Thanks for the permission to knee your crotch, Ivan! You’ve got Ludwig worn down pretty good here: feel free to do whatever you need to to disarm and capture him for the bit of torturing fun we discussed. And when I say whatever you need to do, I do mean that. Auto-hits are more than welcome. He still has his dagger right now, but his skill with it in his left hand is pretty low so one of your strikes is bound to hit his hand/arm. Also, by this point sheer desperation and the prospect of ending the battle quickly are driving him to take more risks than he normally would. Pretty much you’re fighting a cornered rat. XD Enjoy.
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Post by Russia on Jul 29, 2011 19:02:47 GMT -5
Ivan’s attempt at slicing the German’s hand to shreds was foiled as the other nation caught his blade with the ceremonial dagger’s hand guard. Not in the least bit deterred, the Russian managed to get a good grip on Germany’s other wrist in time to stop him from jerking back and putting any distance between them. If his enemy wanted a close and personal knife fight, then that was exactly what Ivan was going to give him. There would be no running away or trying to back off.
“Silly German, you must have forgotten that it was you who started things by invading me.” He shoved against the blade in an attempt to push the trapped dagger’s sharp tip closer to Germany’s face or chest. “You’re just upset now because you know that soon all of Europe is going to burning your flag instead of flying it. You’re losing.”
Since he had not suffered from an arm injury yet to the same level that Ludwig had, Ivan was starting to succeed in pushing the dagger tip close to his enemy. Brute strength was always one of his strongest points in a fight, and even though Ludwig was undeniably strong as well, Ivan was confident that he was stronger. Then the German did something that the violet-eyed General had not been prepared for in the least. Instead of trying to strike for his face or shove Ivan back any, Ludwig struck with his knee, hitting Russia right in the most tender of areas.
The ashen blonde immediately released his grip on both Ludwig and his own dagger with a groan of pain. It took a lot to force the Russian to audibly respond to an injury, but that low blow hurt way worse than any sort of gunshot wound or blade injury that he had endured thus far in the war. That was just not an area that was okay to go kneeing someone in, and he was furious that Germany had dared to sink that low in every sense of the word. For a moment right after the impact, the Russian comically reached down to apply pressure to the injured area with his free hand, backing up a few feet in the process .
He didn’t have time to recover much before a movement from his enemy caught his attention, and he noticed Ludwig throwing himself forward, knife in hand as though he thought he was going to quickly kill Russia while he was distracted. It might have worked, if Ivan had not expected such a maneuver and been able to push some of the pain aside and instinctively reach up to grab onto Germany’s knife wrist, effectively avoiding being stabbed right through the throat. Enraged, he squeezed the other nation’s wrist as hard as he could, savagely jerking it at an angle to make Ludwig drop his weapon.
The tactic always worked for disarming opponents when he could get a good grip on their knife wrists, and now was no different. No longer smiling in wicked glee, he couldn’t help but feel a wave of satisfaction course through him as he heard the dagger hit the wooden floor with a thump. Wasting no time, he drew back his fist and punched for the other nation’s face.
Shoving the Nazi back as hard as he could after the punch, Ivan searched the floor for his dagger. It was about time he added more Germanic blood to the blade. Spotting the cream-ish colored hilt of his own weapon not far from where Ludwig had been pushed, the Soviet lunged forward, his hand closing on the weapon’s ornate hilt the moment it was within reach. Charging forward with a quickness that seemed like it should have been impossible for someone his size, Ivan grabbed onto the German once more, this time stabbing the blade for the other country’s lower stomach the moment he had managed to get a hold of him. Shoving the other nation back a bit more and into a section of wall, he gave the blade a twist, his eyes shining with cold fury as he stared straight into Ludwig’s face. Of course he did learn form his mistakes, and this time Ivan was sure to use the fact that he had his enemy against a wall to his advantage, moving his own legs so that no more cheap shots to his junk could easily happen.
"I'll enjoy killing the rest of your encircled army here, Ludwig. Hopefully you are back in time to watch as the last of your men are rounded up." He pushed up with the blade in an attempt to cause more damage to any internal organs in the dagger's path.
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Post by Germany on Aug 7, 2011 1:50:30 GMT -5
To Germany’s surprise — and horror — Russia was not quite as distracted as he had hoped. The enraged madman caught his wrist on its way to his throat and jerked it back viciously, audibly cracking bones and snapping tendons. Ludwig bit back a cry as his fingers involuntarily released their hold on the dagger: he felt the cool metal slip out of his hand, heard it land on the floor with a dull, disheartening ‘thump’.
He was unarmed!
Well, not really, but he might as well be. There was no way, no way Ivan was going to let him reload either of his empty firearms. Not a chance in Hell. The Russian had a death grip on his wrist, squeezing it so hard it felt his hand would pop off.
He had him.
This was it.
Oh Scheiße. The adrenal, dread-drenched thought formed the moment he saw Ivan’s fist flying towards his face. He thrust his head and body as far to the right as he could in a double-bid to dodge the blow and jerk free of Ivan’s grasp, but he was only half successful; Ivan’s knuckles powered into the left half of his face like a runaway freight train, sending his head reeling back while bolts of white lightning flashed across his vision.
The next few seconds swirled by like demonic dancers in a surreal, half-conscious, half-blind blur of pain, dizziness, and confusion. He was aware of being shoved back, of falling, but the sensations were as muted and detached as though he were in a dream. His eyes shut without his willing it, and all he could see was the dull red haze throbbing maddeningly against the backs of his eyelids. A sharp pain shooting up his tailbone screamed to his still-partially-knocked-silly mind that he’d crash-landed rather forcefully on his ass, the result of his body working on instinctual autopilot to keep him upright as long as possible.
Fighting to regain his wits, he knew at the back of his mind that he was done for. Any moment now the killing blow would come.
And the air…the air was so cold. Far colder than it had seemed only minutes ago, like the ever-present chill in his open wound was penetrating deep into his body, blanching his skin snow-white and turning his blood to ice. Each breath he drew in pierced his insides like thousands of freezing needles. His chest felt heavy.
I couldn’t have lost that much blood, he thought wonderingly as soon as he was able, could have I?
In the first few minutes immediately after he’d had his ear and cheek sliced open by a bullet he’d lost a note-worthy amount, but the frigid conditions aided blood-clotting and the wound was shallow. Even if it had kept bleeding nonstop not enough time had passed…
But there was no time to think about it; he had to get moving, now.
Ignoring his body’s pleas to rest, Ludwig forced his legs to propel him up, determined to make this as hard as he possibly could for his nemesis.
Unfortunately, even with a severely damaged crotch Ivan was still quick as a fish. He was in front of Ludwig before the Nazi had finished reaching his full height, seizing him by the throat and thrusting his blade into his lower stomach.
Despite his resolve to never cry out no matter what bodily harm befall him, Ludwig couldn’t help the short, undignified guttural sound which tore out of his throat right then. He’d been stabbed before, but not often enough to work up a resistance that allowed him to fully mask the fact that it really, really hurt.
Any move he made now was going to be met with severe pain anyway, so he might as well throw caution to the wind. He balled his right hand into a fist, intending to smash Ivan’s face in with what was left of his own brute strength, but the Soviet was already hurriedly pushing him backwards.
Ludwig let him, frustrated, but not completely thrown off his game. The moment his back hit the wall he threw the punch he’d been saving, mustering all the might he could behind it, knowing full well that it would hurt him just as much as Ivan and mentally steeling himself against the impending shock.
But the blow never connected with anything solid; Ivan let go of his neck suddenly and dodged, feeling no more, perhaps, than the rush of air from his hand.
Rotten luck, but at least he’d gotten Ivan to let go of him.
Sort of.
Unfortunately, the “sort of” part was a real problem, because Ivan still had a hand on the dagger protruding from his stomach.
Which he twisted.
Savagely.
The slicing, razor-sharp pain instantly rocketed Ludwig through seven shades of Hell, its intense, blazing agony utterly eclipsing everything else in the world. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, his whole face scrunching up, and ground his teeth against the cry that tried to get out, taking a ridiculously steep breath instead. Ivan was saying something to him now, and Ludwig heard the words, but few of them registered. His enemy may as well have been speaking to him in Russian. Still, he picked up that he was being taunted, which would have been more infuriating if he knew exactly what the taunt was and he wasn’t in too much pain to care.
Whatever he’d said, Ivan emphasized his words by drawing his dagger up.
Ludwig sucked in another noisy deep breath and took it like a nation spirit, though he knew deep down that Ivan didn’t need to hear him cry out to tell that he’d put him in a world of hurt. His eyes were screwed shut with pain — so tightly that they themselves were another source of it — and even without looking he knew his face showed freely everything his vocal chords held back. Still, he kept up the show. He’d go out like a man the way he always did, strong and formidable to the last. It wouldn’t turn failure to victory, but at least it was brave and dignified. Right now, it was all he had.
He felt the last bit of hope he’d clung to of taking Stalingrad leave him like the blood gushing out of his belly. The stab-wound was mortal, even for a relatively powerful nation. It had went in too deep, and the twisting motion had sliced his internal organs to ribbons. Ivan could turn around and walk off right now and he would still ‘die’ within the next hour, likely, even with his supernaturally rapid healing and if no other enemies found him.
It was for the best, really. Even if by some fluke he did manage to survive this he’d be fairly useless to his men for at least a couple of days, during which time he’d probably be killed by the lucky shot, slipshod grenade toss, or blind artillery fire of some low-level Russian soldier, which would be far more humiliating than getting killed by another nation spirit.
He took a few seconds to recover from Ivan’s dagger-trauma before opening his eyes.
Seconds that Ivan had deliberately let him have, no doubt savoring his victory.
Bastard’s blood was as cold as the nights around here.
“Go ahead and gloat,” he growled dangerously, his stare even more glacial than his foe’s thanks to the natural color of his eyes, “One battle doesn’t win a war, Russia.”
He thought about trying for another punch, decided against it. At best he might be able to cause Ivan some serious pain before he checked out, but his chances were better if he pretended he’d given up and waited to catch the big brute off-guard.
If he lived long enough, that was. Who knew how long Ivan would decide to torture him?
For the moment, he remained still, leaning heavily against the wall but still managing to remain standing, staring directly into the other man’s eyes in a very confrontational and defiant manner. “You know,” he continued, his voice pained but still strong the way only a nation’s could be in such circumstances, “it says something that so many of the soldiers fighting for me in this city are Russians. Some are POWs we force to help, yes, but many needed no prodding from us.” He forced a wicked little smirk. “Some are actual Red Army traitors. Most say they felt you betrayed or abandoned them. Truly, you must treat them like dirt if siding with ruthless Nazis is more appealing than fighting for one’s ‘Motherland’.”
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Post by Russia on Aug 12, 2011 16:10:24 GMT -5
Somehow managing to smile wickedly once more, Ivan kept the blade lodged in his German foe’s gut. The fact that he had just caused severe damage to his hated enemy was deliciously obvious both in Ludwig’s pained expression and the amount of warm blood that was now washing over the Soviet’s knife hand. That will teach you to invade my lands. The thought was insanely gleeful and for just a bit Ivan was able to push aside all pain from his own injuries and focus just on that beautiful moment.
Ludwig had cried out at first when Ivan had plunged the blade into his stomach, but now he seemed able to refrain, and Ivan was only rewarded with the noise of his enemy sucking in his breath, his blue-eyes shut tight. It was slightly disappointing really. The sadistic blonde loved to hear his opponents cry out or plead with him when he had the upper hand. But with someone as proud as the austere German, he was finding out that he would not get such pleasure.
Grinning as though he had just single-handedly won the war, Russia partially withdrew the blood-soaked blade, still leaving a good couple inches in the wound. “Any last words before I gut you like the fascist pig that you are?” He spoke softly, with what others would easily describe as an unsettling happiness to his voice.
“Go ahead and gloat. One battle doesn’t win a war, Russia.”
Ivan studied the mortally injured German with a slight air of annoyance at those words. Ludwig was clearly just upset because now he must have been sensing that he would be losing this war very soon. One battle may not have won wars, but these separate victories sure helped the moral of the soldiers. An important thing for the Red Army, which had been suffering from a lack of morale in this city for the longest time. “That’s just something the losing nations say to make themselves feel better.” Ivan stated, ignoring the times he had been in Ludwig’s situation and thinking the same thing.
“You know, it says something that so many of the soldiers fighting for me in this city are Russians. Some are POWs we force to help, yes, but many needed no prodding from us.”
The statement effectively wiped the smile off the sadistic Soviet’s boyish features. He didn’t like the direction Ludwig was taking this little before death conversation. The topic of the Russian traitors was not one that he particularly liked to hear or discuss.
“Some are actual Red Army traitors. Most say they felt you betrayed or abandoned them. Truly, you must treat them like dirt if siding with ruthless Nazis is more appealing than fighting for one’s ‘Motherland’.”
“Betrayed or abandoned them?” Ivan scoffed at the words. “I never betrayed or abandoned anyone. I’ve only ever been completely loyal to my people.” He slid the blade out of the gut injury, placing the reddened metal instead up by Ludwig’s face. The instrument of death left a smear of crimson on the German’s pale cheek as he traced it across for a moment. Adding some pressure, he let the bloodied blade cut into part of Germany’s cheek.
“My people love to unfairly toss the blame on me for things though, so I am not actually surprised by the number of vile traitors. They are never happy you know. If you and I were to switch places right now Germany, they would be just as quick to blame you for all their problems.” It felt sort of odd to talk about his own people is such a manner. Usually nations liked to downplay their people’s problems and pretend they didn’t exist altogether, but since the chaos that had been the Revolution, Ivan had found his own views on his people slightly tainted. He knew that they were not exactly the most loyal population in the world. They could be praising their leaders one day and demanding their blood the next.
Hopefully after he had won the war though his people would become less traitorous. Punishing the traitors after the war was sure to help too. Fear was often the best thing for getting obedience out of both people and nations alike. Surely once anyone who might have been thinking about treachery saw what happened to those who had actually been guilty of it, they would settle down and become more loyal. That only made sense, right?
“Not that any number of traitors is going to make a difference in this war anyways. They'll die alongside their Nazi friends, and any left after I win the war will be dealt with.” His lips curled up into a very slight smile at the thought. Wasting no more time- he was still aware that Germany might have enough strength to make another attempt on his life- Ivan brought his wicked sharp dagger up in an attempt to slice through the German’s throat. “До свидания.” _______________________ ((Ivan has some really odd ideas about how people work. XD And you are free to either have that slash hit home or have Ludwig somehow block it. I know that we planned on Lud losing anyways soon, but I was not sure when you wanted to have him down and out. ))
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Post by Germany on Aug 21, 2011 2:37:16 GMT -5
Predictably, Ivan denied all charges and insisted that he had never, ever let down or forsaken any of his people, ever, and once again heaped all the blame onto something else. Had he been up to it, Germany would have called the bull. Even the most determined and loving nation spirit couldn’t be 100% loyal and helpful to 100% of his people 100% of the time, and Ludwig happened to know for a fact that Ivan had straight-up murdered more of his own people than most of their kind. Unjustly murdered. Didn’t matter whether he’d done it under a boss’s order or not — the fact that he’d done it at all meant that he didn’t have the right to make such a claim. Forced betrayal was still betrayal. Of course, Ivan being Ivan, it was unclear exactly how much forcing had been done. Bloodthirsty asshole was always looking for the slightest reason to kill someone — he probably killed his subordinates just for forgetting to address him properly. Ivan withdrew the dagger from his belly, and this time Ludwig was able to suppress all but a strong upper-body flinch. An instant later the still-warm blade was kissing his cheek with his own blood, the sharp metal tip as cruel and unforgiving as the sadist who wielded it. Aren’t you done yet? he thought miserably, silently praying to any gods that might exist that Ivan wasn’t in the mood to be excessively gory and sadistic today. Where he had appeared annoyed and frustrated moments earlier, now Ivan’s face lit up with that familiar wicked giddiness that Ludwig hated most about him. Unfortunately, he could do nothing but watch as his tormentor playfully drew the business-end of his blade along his cheek, applying more and more pressure until he broke through the skin. As much pain as he was already in, Ludwig barely noticed. “My people love to unfairly toss the blame on me for things though, so I am not actually surprised by the number of vile traitors. They are never happy you know. If you and I were to switch places right now Germany, they would be just as quick to blame you for all their problems.” Reading between the lines, what Ivan was essentially saying was that if his people turned against him they were just being irrational haters, because mass starvation, terrible living conditions, having friends and family who got murdered because the people in charge were paranoid and powerhungry assholes, and having to live in a state of constant fear were all nothing to get upset over. Right. That was some sound reasoning. Here Ivan was trying to blame all his unhappy comrades on simple human nature when they had every right to feel abandoned and betrayed. Must be nice, living in a fantasy world where nothing bad is ever your fault.Then, probably to reassure himself, Ivan added that it ultimately didn’t matter how many of his own people betrayed him because he was going to win this war anyway. Ludwig couldn’t resist. “Really now?” He returned the other general’s cruel, tiny smile, burning defiance rising up through the pain in his eyes, “Any number? Even ninety percent of your citizens?” He wasn’t expecting the jackass remark to go over well — he was actually hoping it would piss Ivan off enough to kill him and get it over with. Nonetheless, he was still a little surprised when he saw his enemy’s hand flash like lightning towards his throat, and he couldn’t help it when his arm reflexively jumped up and tried to knock the flying death aside against his wishes. He felt his arm collide with Ivan’s, but only in the blink of a moment before the dagger sliced into his throat like a hot knife through butter. For Germany, the world burst in a silent supernova of sensation that made his vision black out for a second. Some unconscious knee-jerk reaction made him launch himself at Ivan, only to slide off the larger man like a rag doll and fall forward on his hands and knees. Incoherent with agony and barely aware of his surroundings, he rested in that position for a second or two, a red waterfall cascading from his neck, before his broken wrists gave out like twigs from under him. His face smacked the floor, cruelly denying him the right angle to send his nose through his brain. Slowly, the world came back to him, but it was as though he were in a dream where the edges of his vision were blurred to uselessness and he was viewing everything else through a thin fog, or a surreal reality-warping lens. Eerily, his pain was almost gone now. Half-conscious, his thoughts bobbing helplessly in a tumultuous sea of confusion, it took him a moment to grasp that the vast pool of red liquid racing out in front of him like an expanding ocean was his own blood. Something was clogging his windpipe, gurgling in his airways and making it impossible to breath… He coughed up blood. And in the back of his mind, he wondered how he was still alive. __________________________________
A/N: Feel free to kill me next post and put me out of my misery, Ivan.
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Post by Russia on Aug 25, 2011 17:11:32 GMT -5
Even injured as badly as he was, the ever defiant German brought his arm up in an attempt to block Ivan’s death blow. The feeling of the enemy general’s arm smashing into his own caused the violet-eyed nation some discomfort and pain, but did little to stop the blade from slicing through Ludwig’s exposed throat immediately after impact. The sight of the crimson that quickly seeped out of the fatal injury to his enemy’s neck was more than enough to make him able to forget about the dull pain in his arm caused by Germany’s last defensive gesture. Overtaken with a sadistic thrill, he was even able to forget for a moment or two about the snide remarks Ludwig had tossed at him right before he had slashed for his throat.
Instead of just going limp as Ivan had expected, the other man jerked wildly in a desperate sort of fashion that reminded Ivan of a wild hare. They also tended to suddenly jerk and struggle right after having their throats slit in the seconds before they died. But Ludwig was far from being a small defenseless hare, and him suddenly lunging forward nearly knocked Ivan over. Managing to maintain his balance with only a bit of staggering, he watched in amusement as the German slid off him and to the floor.
Always one to thoroughly enjoy watching his enemies in pain, the Russian stepped back for a moment and studied Ludwig with a truly terrifying expression of happiness. He had done it. He had won against one of his most hated foes. This would undoubtedly reflect badly for those trapped German forces outside too, a thought that made Ivan all the more content. Just killing Ludwig like this wouldn’t mean an instant victory. He knew that. But it felt incredibly good nonetheless and heightened his feeling of power and control.
The sadistic Soviet watched his enemy collapse the rest of the way, choking on his own blood that was soaking the floor with increasing intensity now. Amazingly, Ludwig seemed to still be alive. The fact that the German had been able to jerk free of him after the slash and now continued to cling to life was incredible. He hadn’t seen or heard of anyone so hard to kill since the last years of the Tsardom, when the mystic Rasputin had been murdered. There had been something oddly disconcerting back then about hearing that the self acclaimed “holy man” had survived being poisoned, shot and beaten, only to have people discover that he had died from the frozen waters he had been tossed into. Clearly, Ludwig was the Rasputin of the nation world.
But Rasputin had only been human as far as Ivan knew, and if he could survive so much then it probably should not have come as such a surprise to see Germany still clinging stubbornly to life. “I guess you really are tougher than you look.” Russia stated playfully. Bloodied blade still in hand, he gave a savage kick for his enemy’s rib cage. He didn’t particularly care what people said about kicking enemies when they were down. As far as Ivan was concerned, this was a perfectly respectable way to show superiority and implied nothing negative about himself.
Now that the thrill of the battle had started to die down, the Russian started to notice his own injuries throb with pain. His breathing heavy from all the activity he had been involved in since the battle had started for the day, Ivan brought his right foot up and then stomped down on Germany’s upper back, allowing his weight to settle on the enemy nation and push him against the floor all the more. He wasn’t sure if the other man was aware enough of his surroundings to hear him still, but that didn’t stop him from gloating. “I’ll see you in Berlin soon, Ludwig.” In a cruel movement, the Soviet stomped down for Ludwig’s skull full force.
Only once he was sure his enemy was not moving anymore did Russia re-sheath his blade. It was a shame Ludwig’s gun did not have any bullets either, or he would have been all too happy to steal it. But without any sort of ammunition on hand, it was more useless than his own firearm, which was heavier and made for a better club when empty. After checking the fallen German nation for anything else useful he might have, Ivan started off at a much slower and more pained pace for the exit to the building. With the injuries he had sustained from Prussia and Germany, he was certain that he should see someone with medical skills before trying to join his men in killing off any more of the German forces that were continuing to fight around the church. He only hoped that he could find someone with medical skills before he either passed out from blood loss -luckily for him his injuries were bleeding fairly slowly compared to Germany’s and Prussia’s- or was shot by an enemy soldier while wandering around in a sort of pained and tired daze.
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Post by Germany on Sept 1, 2011 3:51:40 GMT -5
Red, red, red. The ocean of salty, warm blood grew even darker and blurrier before him until all edges gave way to vague, poorly-defined shapes suspended in fuzzy colors. He could still see — and indeed he was seeing — but his mind was shutting down and no longer registered the details. Everything was just there, its significance lost. Images had no meaning. Noises had no meaning. Time had no meaning. Sensation…sensation still had meaning, muted as it was. Lying there on the cold, hard floor, death flowing into him, he could still feel his body. But it was a numb, disconnected feeling, devoid of real pain and barely aware of pressure. With time meaningless, it might have been the blink of an eye or a slow eternity before Ludwig felt a blunt pressure in his ribs and the vaguely-unpleasant sensation of motion. The scene before his eyes changed, colors and shapes cart-wheeling and blending into one another, growing darker and darker and darker. Then everything went black. ____________________________________ When Germany awoke, the first thing he was aware of was that he was lying on his back on something soft with his head propped up on something that was also soft staring up at the flawless white ceiling and wall of a clean office-type room. The temperature was pleasantly warm. DamnitdamnitdamnitDAMNIT! Russia, the fight, Stalingrad — it all broke upon him in an intense instantaneous wave of consciousness. He’d died. He’d failed. Now he would never take Stalingrad, and the German soldiers still alive in that frozen hellhole were living on borrowed time. Soon enough they’d all be captured or dead. And the ones that died instantly would be the luckiest, because after all the destruction, death, and suffering that the Germans had inflicted on them the already barbaric Red Army was sure to be feeling even more merciless and sadistic than usual, more so even than the spirit of their deranged nation. They weren’t going to be in the mood to do anything but make Satan proud acting out on their frenzied lust for revenge. I failed. I let them down. They’re all going to die horribly. I’m losing ground. I’m getting weaker. It had been a terrible loss, and as both a nation-spirit and a highly-regarded, inspirational general Ludwig couldn’t help but to feel extremely responsible and deeply disappointed in himself for failing to come through when it mattered most. Yes, he and his people had had no business attacking Stalingrad when they had and under the circumstances they had, and if Hitler had been a better leader it never would have happened, but he was Germany. If anyone could compensate for the Führer’s blunders and lead the German forces to victory against the odds it was him. Perhaps that was the problem right there: it couldn’t be done. Devastating as this most recent loss was, failure was nothing new to Germany. He’d lost his ass in the Great War — metaphorically speaking — and he’d been in a few battles since then that hadn’t ended in his victory. Defeat was always a possibility, twentyfold more so when godawful battle strategies were involved. He had superhuman attributes and abilities, but at the end of the day he was still just one soldier fighting in one battle of a war involving millions. Even with Russia’s personification out of the picture it would probably take a bunch of him fighting in Stalingrad along with Prussia to offset the damage that Hitler had caused by his utter ineptness and firm refusal to listen to sound advice. He’d known that almost from the start, and he wasn’t in the least surprised by the outcome. Still, he’d tried his best, and his best hadn’t been good enough. That was crushing, especially since there had been a chance — a small chance, but a chance nonetheless — that his taking the church and securing a strip of Volga could have caused a domino-reaction ending in complete German takeover of the city. At the very least he could have gotten his wounded out and more supplies in to his desperate comrades. Now he was hundreds of kilometers away from all the action, and, as was all too often the case with these annoying little death-trips, his freshly-regenerated form was not completely free of pain and discomfort. His stomach ached in the place where Ivan had gutted him, but at least it was a dull, tolerable ache: nothing like the piercing agony he had felt when it had happened. His throat felt tender and irritated inside and out — a mercifully mild reminder of the blade that had sliced it open. It was only natural that he should be feeling some kind of discomfort in these places, but what really surprised Ludwig was the moderate headache and a pins-and-needles sensation all over his head. Having been ‘killed’ enough times and in enough ways he knew what that meant: his entire skull had been smashed in like an egg. And judging by the way the most intense tingling was happening in and around his nose, mouth, chin, and forehead the crushing blow had been delivered to the back of his head… Red-hot fury shot through Ludwig’s veins. The frown on his face turned hatefully sour. I was dead before you smashed my brains all over the floor, you sick sonuvabitch! The ‘finishing’ move had been completely unnecessary, and that would have been obvious to Ivan. By deliberately defiling his corpse in such a violent way the Russian was making a powerful statement about his perceived dominance over and complete lack of respect for his enemy; he may just as well have urinated on him. Alright, you want to play THAT game, do you? Next time we meet I swear I’m going to whip —“Deutschland, you disappoint me.”The unpleasantly familiar sound of the Führer’s voice shot through Ludwig’s thoughts of sweet revenge. Damn.And here he’d been hoping his boss had been in another room and too busy to bother with him. Forcing as much anger as he could out of his frown — Hitler didn’t take kindly to being glared at — he sat up and rolled his legs over the edge of the sofa he’d been napping on. Hm. Someone had gone through the trouble of cleaning him up and dressing him in a fresh uniform. That tended to happen to him sometimes before he gained consciousness — Hitler was surprisingly squeamish for someone who ordered messy executions. He hated for blood or dead things to be anywhere near him, so whenever his unconscious country appeared too close for comfort after having met a particularly gruesome end he’d call in someone to clean up the mess. Because of this, a couple more people than was really necessary knew of Ludwig’s nationhood. The Führer approached from the side, stopping a few paces in front of his nation and fixing him with a dissatisfied frown. As usual he looked his best dressed in fine ironed clothes with neatly parted brown hair and a well-groomed mustache. His arms hung loosely down in front of him, one hand over the other in a very relaxed, informal posture. Ludwig quickly glanced around the room. They were alone. His heart sank even further down into the murky toilet-bowl of unhappiness; that was usually a bad sign. His boss seemed to be waiting for a reply, so, summoning up the most respectful voice he could, Ludwig put forth his best apology and explanation. “My apologies, my Führer, but the situation in Stalingrad could not possibly be more dire. The Sixth Army is on the cusp of total annihilation.” Not that you care. He drew in a breath before continuing, hoping against hope that the madman in charge of his destiny was in the mood to do something sane for once. “Please, reconsider your stance on a full-scale retreat. Almost no supplies are getting through and most of the men are starving, weak, freezing to death, and in no condition to fight.” The unpleasant taste of blood in his mouth drove him to get up and start for the small sink he’d spotted earlier. Sadly, his plea for sanity went over about as well as he’d expected. “NEIN!” Hitler’s voice was unnecessarily loud and full of vigor. “There will be NO retreating or surrendering, you hear me? You are to fight to the last man! The Sixth Army will either take Stalin’s city or die trying!”Dark, angry thoughts coursed through Ludwig’s head as he proceeded to rinse his mouth out thoroughly in the sink, cupping his hands under the flow of cool, clean water, sipping it up and spitting it back out with bloody streamers. “What are you doing?”Ludwig waited until he was done before answering. “Rinsing the blood out of my mouth. Tends to happen when you get your skull smashed in.” There was a slight bite to his tone. He couldn’t help it. Hopefully his boss wouldn’t notice. He turned back around to see Hitler making a face of disgust. “Artillery?” “Russia.” The name dropped like icy poison from Germany’s lips. His expression hardened without him even realizing it, the corners of his mouth drawing back in a very subtle snarl. He wasn’t looking at Hitler now, but rather past him, his molten gaze burning into the far wall. For a moment, Hitler remained silent. Then he walked towards Ludwig with a speed and gait that suggested he was going to head past him, only to turn around at the last moment so they were standing side by side and place a hand on the nation’s right shoulder. “We’ll get him, Deutschland. You’ll see. He and Stalin will both fall before us.” It was almost inspiring how sure he sounded. He gave Ludwig’s shoulder a little squeeze. Unfortunately — or perhaps not so unfortunately for some cases, Ludwig supposed — Hitler did not have the same command over fate that he did over the embodiment of his country. He could talk in absolutes all he wanted — it wasn’t going to win the war for them. Despite the fact that this was the most support his boss had personally showed him in a long while, the bold words and obviously-meant-to-be-reassuring shoulder-squeeze did little to improve Germany’s mood. Until you clean up your act and start listening to me and the other generals, I don’t have a lot of faith in that happening.
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Post by Germany on Sept 1, 2011 17:59:19 GMT -5
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