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Dark Intentions	By : dreamingvision Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 2589 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers or the major cast. I do not profit financially from writing this story.

Chapter List
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Three weeks later
China fought the urge to heave a weary sigh. The meetings with his boss were among some of the most tedious but necessary tasks he had to endure throughout the day. They hardly changed, the talks ranging from economics, foreign policy, state affairs, and the like, and he couldn't wait for this particular day's agenda to end. The chrysanthemums were almost in bloom. He wanted to at least take a few moments to enjoy their fragrance and beauty before the Double Ninth Festival started.
Normally, he didn't mind the meetings with his boss. The man understood that he, Yao, was something unique amongst those working in the government, someone who remembered the old ways, respected and cherished Yao for that, and valued the embodiment's thoughts and advice on all aspects of politics and some in life. China loved to feel cherished and revered, despite the fact there were times when he felt his age. This day happened to be one such day, where the weight of his years draped around him like a cloak, and he wanted to be outside and to simply be . . . Yao.
'Too much sadness,' he thought. 'Too much turmoil. Why can't anyone see we're trying our best?'
What China presented to the world and how things were in his lands were two different things. As far as he was concerned, the other nations didn't need to know of his personal problems. He'd seen too much in his long years. He was perhaps the only country that had been alive the longest, since Ancient Greece, Ancient Rome, and Ancient Egypt passed away. It made him feel . . . lonely in knowing that.
'Funny how Japan acts more like the old man than me,' he mused. It brought a slight smile to his face but then it disappeared almost as quickly.
"Is everything okay?"
China slowly lifted his head to gaze at his boss. Concern was in the other man's eyes, concern and confusion. For years now, China had been riding on a high of economic prosperity, even as other nations faced one financial crisis after another. He held the majority of America's debt in his hands as the younger nation struggled with regaining some kind of financial freedom. Japan, of course, held some of the younger nation's debt but it wasn't in the range as to what China himself held. He wasn't sure if it was something he should be proud of or ashamed of, but it was something he knew he could use against the other nation at any time he wanted. In a way, it did make him feel powerful to have someone as strong as Alfred under his thumb and quite possibly for as long as China wanted to keep him there. However, economics were only one part to the health of a country. There were the land, the people, and politics. There was unrest in his lands. It'd been there for years, and he'd wanted to handle it on his own. He didn't want or need the help or input of others on how to care for his people. It was why he and his government tried to keep as tight of control over the things the other nations heard in their news casts. He didn't believe in flaunting his troubles and going into histrionics the way the European nations and America seemed to like to do. China offered the man a smile and a nod.
"Yes," he said. "I'm fine. It's just . . . feeling tedious today."
His boss nodded, a sympathetic smile on his face.
"I agree," he said. His gaze went to the window of his office. "It has been feeling most tedious today, and the day hasn't even begun yet."
"Perhaps we should call it a day?" China asked, hopeful. "The chrysanthemums are starting to bloom, and I'd love to walk among them before the festival begins."
"I wish," his boss said with a snort. He also looked a tad bit uncomfortable. Something was going on, and China knew it by looking at the man. "Unfortunately, I was contacted this morning by the American embassy . . . it seems the ambassador wants for us to set aside some time for an envoy coming from her country."
"An envoy?" China sat up, and his eyes narrowed. Already, he felt suspicious. "What kind of envoy?"
"She didn't say," the man replied. He frowned and tapped two of his fingers together. It was a nervous tick of his, China had noticed. "In fact, it's the first time I've actually heard from her in a few days. She sounded . . . dazed . . . I don't know. She didn't sound like her usual stern self."
"What did she say about this envoy?"
"Just that it was important and that the person leading this envoy specifically requested to meet with me . . . and you."
China scowled upon hearing this. He didn't like it. There was just something about this that felt off and just . . . wrong. He didn't want to meet with any envoy from America. He believed they were coming to ask for more money, like they'd been doing for the last several decades, and he wasn't feeling in a very generous mood at the moment. Despite what he'd heard Canada and Mexico say about America at the last world meeting, he still felt a certain sense of disgust, aggravation, apathy, and . . . lack of amiableness towards the nation. He certainly was more than displeased and angry with Alfred F. Jones at the moment, and the last thing he wanted was to see the American beg and plead for assistance China wasn't in the mood to give. He'd heard the rumors. Trading had almost stopped on Wall Street. No one wanted to invest any money, and it certainly felt to be true (most Americans weren't investing in the Chinese markets at this point and the Chinese were now refusing to trade with them as well). Undoubtedly, it was hurting America, it was why he was finally coming out of hiding, and China . . . well, he just didn't care anymore. He truly wished the nation would simply up and die. Why he thought that Alfred was in his country, he didn't know. He hadn't seen the American in a number of years. It was . . . just a feeling he had, and it wasn't one he was going to ignore. The younger nation probably intended to try and be preachy about how he, China, treated his people and how he and his leaders should be kinder, less restrictive with them. Oh, and he couldn't forget how America and his leaders wanted China to remove some of the import taxes on their goods so they could make more money. It was nauseating and disgusting, and China wanted to hear nothing of it. His country had better things to do with its money than constantly bailing out a nation who couldn't keep his financials together.
"When are they supposed to get here?" he asked, folding his arms in front of his chest. It made him look like a petulant, pouting, and ill-tempered child. "And why weren't we told sooner than this?"
"She asked that we meet with them just before we break for lunch. I tried to beg her off on it, but she insisted, kept saying it was important," his boss said. "They were preparing something . . . I'm not sure. I heard a lot of movement and someone issuing orders. I was assured that it wouldn't take long, despite its importance. As for why . . . I don't know."
"Is America here? Did she say that?"
"No . . . but he is here," the man replied. "I heard his voice somewhere in the background. I know I did. His voice . . . very distinctive."
"Ai yah," China muttered, shaking his head. He rose to his feet. "I'm in no mood to deal with him or his histrionics. You deal with the envoy."
"Your presence was requested as well," his boss said. He, too, rose to his feet, alarmed.
"I don't care," China growled. "I don't wish to see America right now. I don't wish to hear his annoying voice. If I do, I may end up punching him in the face."
"That would not be good for diplomatic relations," his boss said. "It could start a war . . ."
"Then all the more reason for me to leave," China retorted. "Whatever is that they want, we're done with assisting them. They can get themselves out of their own troubles. We have enough to deal with in our country. I'm tired of them trying to drain us dry with their neediness. It's time we took care of our own."
China didn't bother to wait to hear his boss's response to that. He strode towards the door of the office and left.
* * *
The chrysanthemums were decidedly very beautiful this year. China had spent the last two hours walking in his private garden of them, taking in the bright golds and ambers, the pale pinks and lavenders, and the crisp white of each flower, and he inhaled a deep breath. For the first time that day, he felt . . . better, a little more relaxed, and he allowed a smile to creep onto his face.
It had taken over an hour, after leaving his boss, for the tension to ease out of his muscles. He'd only started to relax when it became apparent his boss wasn't going to call him back to help in dealing with America and his envoy. He knew his boss could order him back at any time – there was a reason why the embodiments didn't govern over themselves, why they had bosses in the first place – but the man was wise enough to not push China when he became . . . pissy over certain situations and people, as it were. Of course, in order for his boss to call him back, China needed his phone, and he'd . . . left it inside, so as not to be disturbed.
'So peaceful,' he thought with a contented sigh.
His garden was magnificent, in China's mind. It couldn't be too large, but then it didn't need to be overly large. It wasn't as huge as some of the gardens he saw in England's lands or in America's, but it was still something. It was his place to go to when the stress of his job as a nation grew too much to handle, to clear his mind and find that inner balance. A few song birds chirped and called out to him as he walked by their cages, and Yao stopped to listen, his smile still in place. He truly did enjoy quiet, simple moments. With how the world constantly changed, in science and technology and communications, there seemed to be very little time to enjoy simple and quiet moments. China remembered when life had felt less complicated, had actually been less complicated. It was harder – finding food, seeking shelter – but there was less of the nosiness from other nations.
China stared at the birds for several more minutes before moving on towards a stone fountain in the center. The sound of the water falling with gentleness over the stones added to the soothing atmosphere of his garden, but, though he felt relaxed and mostly content, something still troubled China.
'Maybe I shouldn't have said to not give any help to America,' he thought, sitting on a bench. 'But I can't have him bleed me dry. He did it to France once. He could do it to me, too.'
It wasn't a pleasant way to think, but, when he thought about it, China was able to admit, if only to himself, he didn't trust America. He couldn't trust America. The blond was simply too wild, too hyper, too unpredictable, and all too willing to spout off as if he knew what he was talking about, his ideas to be truth. What could a young nation like America know about how things worked anyway? It had taken countries like himself, England, France, and Russia hundreds of years to learn the lessons that they had. It baffled him how America could easily claim he knew what would work best. America was only two-hundred forty-five years old as a nation.
Begrudgingly, as he sat next to the fountain, lulled by the birds, water, and crickets (he kept those in his garden, too, for luck), China admitted to himself that he felt awed by America and his people. They were strong, and they were determined. He couldn't forget about the Summer 2012 Olympics, how at first his athletes were dominating in the medal count, with America and his athletes trailing close behind. He knew why they were dominating. They were doing what no other nation could afford to do at that time – build special schools to train for the Olympics. He wanted America's domination streak at the Olympics to end. He wanted to taste that victory that didn't come from war but from something else, something that gave the entire world hope as nearly every nation converged in one place for two weeks of games.
Sadly, it wasn't to be that way. At some point, the Americans made a comeback, earning more medals, more gold medals, than China's athletes. Russia finished in third with England and Japan not too far behind. China hadn't understood how it had happened, and it was disappointing, not only to him, but to his people. When the Olympics were over, he'd decided the papers needed to tell their people that America won because his athletes had big heads and big chests. There was no other explanation for it. America didn't have any schools dedicated solely for Olympic training. He couldn't afford it. China was the only one who had such schools. How had America's athletes managed such a triumph?
As his thoughts wandered to the Summer 2012 Olympics, China noted how he'd seen America there. Like all of the embodiments, he had attended the event, sitting next to Canada and Russia with Mexico close by during the opening ceremonies. When they sat next to each other, the differences in the two North American brothers were quite evident. Canada's hair brushed against his shoulders, and a stray curl dangled in front of his face whereas America's didn't even reach his shoulders, Nantucket sticking straight into the air. Not too far from the brothers were England and France, each talking to each other and obviously ribbing each other about whose athletes were better, if their facial expressions were anything to go by. He'd noticed the strain on America then, had seen the telltale signs – dark circles and lines around his eyes, the tightness to his smile, the stiff manner in which he carried himself – but, like nearly everyone else, China chose to ignore it. Oh, he knew about the shootings in Aurora, Colorado – it was hard not to, not when nations like Canada, England, and France spoke of them in their newspapers – and he felt a slight twinge of pity for the younger nation, but he didn't dare approach. He and his athletes were there to prove that they were the best in the world, not to discuss political and economic dilemmas. He didn't care if it happened to America, but he wasn't about to be kicked out of England for the duration over money.
'I wonder how long America plans on staying,' China mused to himself. He leaned his head back, staring at the sky. The weather had been nice lately with right amount of rain and sunshine. 'Knowing him, he'll want me to take him on a tour of the country . . . again . . . and head into the places where we don't want people going . . .'
There were things, places, China didn't want people from the outside world to see. His lands were his lands, his people were his people, and he didn't want outside interference. He and his leaders would deal with dissidents as they saw fit, but, of course, nations like America didn't see it that way. U.S. ambassadors were notorious for helping the most vocal of Chinese activists in fleeing to safe havens around the world, specifically to their homeland. Of course, a small part of China felt glad when Chen Guangcheng escaped house arrest and landed in America, but, for the most part, he hated it when he couldn't stop people from escaping or sneaking off to America for what they believed would be a better life for them and their families. For a moment, he considered finding his original copy of The Journey to the West and immersing himself into its pages. Even today, it was one of the best stories a person of his had ever told.
"Ai yah," he muttered. "When will it ever end?"
"Master Wang . . ."
China lowered his gaze from the sky to the man who'd entered his gardens. He was a simple man, dressed in a military uniform, and he was young. Like those who knew who China really was, he addressed the embodiment as was proper.
"Yes?" China inquired.
"The President requests your presence immediately," he said.
"Did he send you so I, too, would have to deal with America and his envoy?" China narrowed his eyes. The young man tilted his head, confused.
"America and his envoy?" the man echoed.
"Yes," China said. "America and his envoy. They wanted to meet with me and the President before we took our break for lunch."
"He didn't say," the man answered, "and it is nearly time for lunch now."
"And how did he seem when he sent you to come and get me?" China had yet to stand up, and he had no intentions of leaving at this point if his boss intended for him to deal with America after he'd made it clear he didn't desire to speak to the younger nation.
"Troubled."
"Troubled?" This caught China's attention, so much so, he ignored America's location.
"Yes, troubled," the man answered. "He wouldn't tell me why, and I didn't ask. He said for me to retrieve you."
"What did he say?" China stood up. He couldn't help but be curious as to what America and his envoy had to say that upset his boss.
"Only that it was urgent for you to return as soon as possible."
"Let's go then."
* * *
It usually took roughly twenty minutes to travel from China's home to his nation's capital building. Many business men and women were leaving their offices, so the journey took an additional ten minutes. By the time China strode through the doors, anxiety gnawed and chomped away at him. The feeling of wrongness had returned, in full force, and he couldn't place why. He also felt that something truly important had just transpired, something he shouldn't have been there to miss, and it caused his gut to ache. He wondered if perhaps he shouldn't have said to not lend any aid to America. Given the younger nation's at times volatile nature, he could declare war and not need a reason why, other than he was tired of China being a Communist nation. America had broken Russia of that. China didn't doubt he could try and break him as well.
By the time he reached his boss's office, China felt like a nervous train wreck waiting to happen. He took a moment to compose himself – it wouldn't do to rush into the room like a frightened chicken – then entered. The sight that greeted him baffled the embodiment.
His boss sat at his desk, where he'd left the man just a few hours prior. That in itself wasn't baffling. What was confusing was the number of brief cases sitting in front of his boss. There were four of them, and they hadn't been there when China left. Upon his entering the room, his boss glanced up.
He was, as the messenger had said, troubled. He was also confused. China hesitated for a moment then took a cautious step towards the man.
"What happened?" he asked. "Where did this come from? What are in these?"
"I met with America and his envoy," his boss replied. "I was going to do as you suggested – tell them no on lending them any more money . . . like you, I'm sick of supporting them, and I was going to make it very clear when they arrived."
China nodded as he listened.
"When did they get here?"
"About half hour after you left, and I was prepared for them. I was prepared, and I was going to tell them 'no' because I know you are right. They need to fix their own mess. I greeted them but not kindly. I was ready for the inquiry for more money and to go to the places that we don't want them to go, like they usually do when they're here. Instead . . ." His boss paused and took a moment to lick his lips. It was a nervous habit of his, one he only performed in front of Yao. "Instead of asking for money, they presented me with these. I didn't offer lunch. I did nothing except accept. . . . this . . . and I forgot to thank them . . ."
"What's in them?"
"Over payment."
"Over . . . wait, what?"
"They have paid back their debt to us," his boss said. "Every yuan they've borrowed from us is in these cases and then some."
China felt himself fall into a chair, stunned and confused. He'd thought for sure upon hearing that an envoy from America (that undoubtedly included the nation's embodiment), that they were there to ask for more money, to help boost their sluggish economy once more, and to beg that China ease up on his trade restrictions with them. He had every reason to believe the rumors about Wall Street. Trading between the two countries was down. He'd not expected payment on the loans.
'But if trading is down, why is he giving payment?' China wondered. 'I wasn't expecting this . . . not at all.'
It was then that the guilt started to settle over him, and China felt the heat slowly starting rise into his cheeks. Here, he'd been expecting America to act like a child and throw a temper tantrum if he didn't receive what he wanted. Instead, China had acted very much like the child, ignoring the envoy, ignoring America, and refusing the request to see him. To make it worse, instead of being a gracious host and offering up a meal to his guests, he and his president simply let America and his people leave. Japan would skin him alive if he heard he'd been less than hospitable.
"Are they still here?" China finally managed to ask. It took him several long moments to find his voice, and he still didn't trust himself entirely to speak.
"America said they were heading back to their embassy," his boss said. "You think maybe . . . we should call them back?"
"Mm-hm," China nodded. The wrongness from before grew stronger during this exchange, the realization that he'd been the one to act with less honor than his former ally, it made Yao sick. "At least . . . offer thanks and some food before they leave, yah? That would be the right thing to do . . ."
"I will call them . . ."
China simply watched as his boss dialed the American embassy. He watched as the man listened and waited for someone to answer the phone. He watched as his leader frowned and set the phone down, all in a sickening slow motion.
"No one is answering," he said.
"No answer . . ."
"Maybe they are angry we didn't offer lunch," his boss offered. "That could be it."
"Maybe . . ." China stood up. "You should get the money to the bank . . . before someone realizes it's here and tries to do something stupid . . . like steal it . . ."
"Yes . . . it is a lot of money . . ." Then his boss blinked. "Wait? Me? What about you? What are you going to do?"
"I am heading to America's embassy," he replied. "I can at least offer him thanks for paying back his debt."
"Of course," his boss answered. "That would be wise. That would be good. At least they will know we are not ungrateful for what they have done."
"Yes."
China exited his office while his boss started to issue orders. No thoughts ran through the embodiment's mind as he drove to the American embassy. His mind felt inexplicably blank, despite the fact there were some unanswered questions lurking in the recesses.
"Everything will be all right," he told himself. "Everything will be all right."
When he finally reached the American embassy, the wrongness he'd been sensing all day slammed into him, and he stopped his car. There were no soldiers at the gates, and they were hanging open. There were no cars in the driveways. There were no signs of life. His eyes wide, China . . . no, Yao scrambled out of his car and into the building. His heart hammered in his chest, and his lungs burned from the exertion, but Yao didn't care. All he wanted was to be sure that someone remained at the embassy. If someone remained, then things could be patched up. There would be no reason to worry.
Silence greeted Yao as he burst through the doors of the embassy. He heard no sounds coming from the humans who worked and lived there. Frantic, he searched every room, every floor, and the gardens. He found no stray pieces of paper, no clothing, no food. The only signs that anyone had even been in the embassy were the pieces of furniture, the freshly made beds, and the trees and flowers growing in the garden. Wringing his hands, Yao left, his senses telling him the Americans were already in the air and heading somewhere else.
There was no way his media wouldn't discover the fact that the American embassy was now vacant. Too many people walked by it every day to not notice. Someone would say something, and inquiries would be made. The last thing China wanted was for the other nations to start butting into as to why it had happened, and he felt most assured that they would. He and his boss had to gain control over the situation as quickly as they could and have their army prepared. Canada and Mexico's predictions about America hadn't included him emptying out his embassy, and China began to believe they were wrong.
America wasn't going to suicide.
America was going to declare war.
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Dark Intentions