Every Reason to Hate [Prussia]

[STEFAN STOJKOVIC, SERBIA]

Tags: Prussia Muse: Excellent Outfit: Royal Yugoslav Army uniform Word Count: 814
Today is November 3 in the year 1941. This takes place in Serbia. The time is 9:15AM CET and the weather is clear skies, moderately cool, sunny.
Notes: This would be approximately two weeks after the Kragujavec Massacre. The first couple paragraphs are mostly historical background.

---

Nations are supposed to represent the people. Stefan was no different. He often shared the same feelings as his people, felt their pain, their joy, their fear. But often times, he could provide no aid. He was forced to watch his young capital, Beograd, suffer under air strikes and Nazi invasion. He saw the other states that made up Yugoslavia be wrenched away from him to be put under the control of others. He couldn’t always save his people, but it was like he died every death. The Serbs were proud to call themselves Serbs. Even as the government agreed to ally with the Nazis, the people rose up and overthrew the government, repealing the agreement. Even as a government official, Stefan couldn’t help but feel for the people who took matters into their own hands. Serbs were strong and they knew it. Someday, they would be free of this German occupation. Someday, he would be reunited with the rest of Yugoslavia. They would make it better than before, too. But that was still only a dream. It was only a dream to see the Balkan people united once more.

The problem with dreams is that sometime, you have to wake up. Dreams aren’t always reality and the reality was a lot harder to face. The young Serb found himself staring at the bottom of the bunk above him. His fingers were interlaced behind his head on what could just barely be described as a pillow. He tried to go back to sleep, to dream of his people happy once more, but every time he closed his eyes, he could only see the firing squads and that wretched decree. He could feel his people suffer and the blame lay solely on the Germans. One hundred civilian lives for every German soldier killed. Fifty civilian lives for every German soldier wounded. Children were massacred along with adults, innocent people were killed just to make a quota. Serbia wanted revenge on the Germans for what they did, but at the same time, he didn’t want more innocent citizens to be murdered.

He rolled over and tried not to think about the recent events. There was a deck of cards, batter and used, lying on the ground. Serbia reached down and picked them up, carefully counting out fifty-two before pushing himself into a slightly cramped sitting position. He dealt out the cards for a quiet game of Solitare. Stefan had gotten quite good at the game, but the probability of him winning was still quite low. Not far into the game, a soldier, the Serb who slept above Stefan, walked in and greeted Stefan warmly in Serbian. They conversed in their own native language much to the annoyance of a nearby German soldier who couldn’t understand anything that was being said. The other Serb took a quick glance at the cards in front of Stefan and started moving them around, clearly familiar with the game. Stefan had done a fairly good job at hiding the fact that he was a nation and not just a regular soldier. Belgrade’s existence was kept secret as well to all but a few select people. Since the invasion by the Nazis, Stefan was, on occasion, referred to as ‘Serbien’ rather than ‘Srbija’ as his own people referred to the region as.

Eventually, Stefan’s bunkmate left and Serbia was left alone again. Even though Belgrade wasn’t very far away, the distance between the capitol and the nation felt endless. After spending so much time raising Belgrade and being near him, it was weird to not be able to turn around and see the boy. The nation gathered his cards and stood up, hitting his head on the slight overhang of the top bunk, a small detail he frequently forgot about. Just as he had finished putting on his jacket from the Royal Yugoslav Army, Stefan’s commanding officer marched in. Like any good soldier, Serbia saluted and waited for directions. He was wanted by the red-eyed German and told where to meet him. Stefan had developed a hatred for anything relating to the Germans and a Nazi officer was the last person he ever wanted to see. Stojkovic’s scowl hardened as he walked out of the barracks to where the Nazi was waiting. When one of his friends approached and asked why he was being summoned, Stefan could only reply with a curt, ‘I don’t know.’ By the time he actually entered the building the albino officer was in, the Serb looked ready to kill someone. There was a small minority population of ethnic Germans in Serbia, so the nation knew enough German to get by and follow orders. In the presence of such a high ranking officer, Serbia followed protocol and saluted, standing at attention and silent, though from his expression, it was quite obvious that the Slav was hating the German more by the second.

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign,top][atrb=style, background: url(http://i1095.photobucket.com/albums/i473/shahal_sparda/Hetalia/prussia1.jpg) center bottom no-repeat; outline: 3px solid #800000; width: 500px; height: 480px; padding: 0px;, bTable] Gilbert Beilschmidt sat hunched over the seemingly endless piles of paperwork that was strewn across his mahogany desk, holding his head in his free hand as he read yet another of those cursed death records, pen poised mere inches above where he was supposed to sign, crimson eyes scanning the document though not processing a word of it. He knew perfectly well what it said by now even found himself absent mindedly reciting fragments of of it on occassion, which disturbed him to no end. It was utterly humiliating, having to not only answer to his younger brother and frankly psychopathic boss, but to also know that he was being held accountable by the Serbs for the countless executions that had occurred over the past few weeks, being one of the only officers in the area with the rank of Generalstabsarzt, which was apparently a great honor. In Gilbert's mind, there was no honor in what he was doing. It was one thing to take a life on the battlefield, but to round up civilians and have them shot in cold blood was disgusting, even in his mind. Murder by firing squad required no experience, no structure, nothing whatsoever other than the basic ability to wield a gun. Where was the glory in that? What was the point in expanding their territory if they were to use the cowardly approach of sentencing the opposition to death? He couldn't even remember the last time he'd fought a worthwhile battle, rather than organising the "punishment" for the undoubtedly treacherous murders of German solders. He had to admit that punishment for such attacks was fair to distribute amongst those guilty of the crime, although it was not appropriate to sentence men, women and children to their deaths by firing squad. Why Ludwig even refused to listen to him he had no idea, though by doing so his bruder was destroying the very German nation that Gilbert had risked so much to create, although considering that Prussia was no longer even considered worthy of a place on the map, he knew that it was only a matter of time before his nation was dissolved completely, so it would probably only worry him for another few years at the most. His thoughts were scattered suddenly as the door burst open to reveal a dark haired man in one of those Yogoslav Army jackets and though he did as expected of him and saluted silently, those dark eyes were completely void of even a small ounce of respect, his face a mask of complete hatred and even his eyes seemed to burn with loathing, and Gilbert was all of a sudden painfully aware of the red band on his upper arm, emblazoned with an oversized swastika. Though, it took a moment for the albino to process what he was doing there and why he'd disturbed him from reading endless lists of the other's dead comrades, which he probably wouldn't appreciate being told about, and yet the Prussian felt as though he had no choice. He'd find out eventually, if he didn't already know, that was. Rising from his seat, Gilbert adjusted his black tie, passing a pale hand through his already slicked back platinum hair before focusing crimson eyes upon the other, mimicking the other's expression without much difficulty, his tone resembling a series of barks as he spoke, sounding more like Ludwig than he'd like to acknowledge. "Knock before entering. Und you look as though you've been dragged though a hedge backwards..." He looked down at one of the papers before returning his gaze to the other, " Stojkovic! Have you no pride?" He paused, looking the other up and down in a disguest that felt alien to him, face contorted into a permanent frown which, after months of doing so, was beginning to feel as natural as standing for hours, almost completely rigid and unfeeling. Date: November 3rd, 1941 Location: Serbia Outfit: SS Military uniform (Gilby's missing his Prussian blue one) Music: Sleep, MCR Notes: Sorry its short. -_- Ran out of time and didn't want to keep you waiting any longer. I'm sorry.

[STEFAN STOJKOVIC, SERBIA]

Tags: Prussia Muse: Outfit: Royal Yugoslav Army uniform Word Count: 1015
Today is November 3 in the year 1941. This takes place in Serbia. The time is 9:15AM CET and the weather is clear skies, moderately cool, sunny.
Notes: April 6 from Serbia's point of view and a lot of narrative. Sorry about the length and rambley-ness of it. I got carried away.

---

It was hard not to think back either months when the bombs first fell. It was early in the morning on April 6, 1941. The sun wasn't even up yet at the time. Stefan had vivid memories of what he was doing right before the bombs and planes appeared in Belgrade. It was Easter Sunday and there were more people than usual in the capitol. Serbia himself was preparing for an early church service. Belgrade was still alseep along with most of his Slavic family. Only a few of the regions which made up Yugoslavia were awake or waking. Slovenia was usually woke up early and Montenego seemed to enjoy a hot drink and watching the sun come up with his older brother. No one could have expected the attack that morning. Government buildings were targeted, but Serbia was more in tune to when the civilians started dying. Stefan ran to his capitol's side and tried to wake the boy who was less than pleased to be woken up. However, there was no denying that the first few bombs left Belgrade bleeding and it was only to get worse.

Serbia had to practically drag Belgrade down into the cellar and into some sort of safety from the bombardment overhead. The others had already assembled, some sleepy, but everyone frightened and confused. Less than an hour into the attack and Serbia was noticeably weaker than before and the capitol had blood seeping through his night clothes. Montenegro tried to take care of his older brother and Belgrade, but the others knew that there was very little anyone could do to halt the invasion. The hours seemed endless as the bombs continued to rain down over the city and Belgrade's health only worsened. Serbia only had the strength to watch as his capitol suffered the bombardment and draw ever nearer to death. The Serb prayed with what strength he had for the attack to cease and for everything to return to what it used to be. By the time that the bombs stopped falling, Belgrade was at Death's door. Serbia was only slightly in better shape from being a nation. Bosnia was the first to venture out into Belgrade or what was left of it. The news report was grim. First, the house that the Slavs had shared was destroyed along with the neighborhood which used to be called 'home'. Secondly, the Germans and the Italians had captured the city. Serbia could feel his anger rise to a boil. The very city he had cared for and loved was now in enemy hands. In 1878 at the Congress of Berlin, Serbia's independence was officially recognized and now, the Germans had invaded his capitol and taken it for their own. That aside, they had nearly killed the city at around 10,000 citizens were dead and even more were injured. Stefan wanted the Axis powers to pay for the crime, but he was completely powerless at the time. Bosnia helped Serbia climb the steps of the cellar to see the extent of the damage and the demands of the victors.

Now, he was a soldier for enemy. As a nation, Serbia was stronger, faster, and more resilient than any human could ever be. He could be shot in fatal regions and still come out alive. However, he also felt for the people and when they or the regions of Serbia suffered, the nation personification suffered as well. Stefan may have been a Nazi soldier, but to the core, he was a Serb and pretty damn proud of it. Serbia knew what it was like to be part of an empire. He had spent 370 years as part of the Ottoman Empire. It wasn't always a pleasurable experience, but eventually came to tolerate it. At least the Ottomans didn't object too strongly when he refused to convert to Islam, preferring the Serbian Orthodox Church. At least the Ottomans didn't hang citizens on lamp posts for the sake to creating fear. At least the Ottomans didn't hate the Serb for the simple fact that he was a Serb. The Germans on the other hand were intolerable. Stefan doubted that he'd ever get used to their occupation.

Serbia let the hatred for the German officer grow and seep through the cracks. In fact, Stefan was widening the gaps and creating an invisible aura of loathing around himself. He may have stood rigidly still and at attention, but there was no denying that Stefan hated the Germans. Without a doubt, Serbia would have enjoyed seeing the Nazis expelled from his home and seeing the crimson-eyed general dead would be a festivity. He wanted the Germans to pay for what they had done to his people, but as impulsive as he was, he knew better than to attack outright. He could bide his time and wait for the right moment to strike back.

He remained motionless and cold eyes remained fixed on the Prussian. Stefan had gotten used to the German way of barking orders, but it was still foreign and very different from the tone of voice he had used when in charge of Serbian soldiers. "My apologies, sir, for interrupting your work, sir." Stefan lacked respect for the general and simply obeyed orders and followed protocol. Nothing more, nothing less. I would describe this as hell, sir. These past few weeks were far from euphoric, sir." It seemed that to these people, Stefan was nothing but another soldier of a hated race. He hated it, but like many things involving the occupation, there was little to be done. "There is pride in being a Serb, my people believe in that, sir. However, there is no pride in knowing that children are dead and innocent lives are being thrown to the wayside and there is nothing one can say or do to change that fact." Even without making contact with the rest of his nation, Serbia knew some of what was going on. He felt every death like it was own and living through the deaths of thousands in two days would make ordinary people go mad.

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign,top][atrb=style, background: url(http://i1095.photobucket.com/albums/i473/shahal_sparda/Hetalia/prussia1.jpg) center bottom no-repeat; outline: 3px solid #800000; width: 500px; height: 480px; padding: 0px;, bTable] Gilbert sighed internally, silently motioning for the other to take a seat directly opposite from where the albino was currently standing. Talking with the Serb these days was like pulling teeth; every other word that he spoke against his people would only further increase his general hatred for himself and the German nation, no matter what the albino might do to minimalise his suffering, although if he was honest with himself he couldn't say that he wasn't trying particularly hard. Nor did he ever intend to. Come to think of it, the Serb's reactions were nothing but completely understandable. Aggravating, yes, but understandable, and yet he still didn't see him as an equal, which in itself made no logical sense whatsoever. Despite himself, he found that a part of him could relate to the other's situation, although the albino failed dismally to comprehend how exactly, after seeing his own capital crumble under pressure, after feeling the overwhelming pain and absolute desperation of his people every day, he could stand there, look him directly in the eye and say that he still had faith. Shouldn't he be begging on his hands and knees to be spared right about now? His entire nation was being threatened, his culture and values mocked, everything he stood for was being crushed beyond repair and yet he still had faith. It annoyed Gilbert to no end that, no matter what he did, Serbia would still stand there and repeat those words, or rather, imply them, which never ceased to irritate him, almost as much as Austria and Germany were at the moment. If Ludwig had had the sense to listen to him before everything had gone out of hand, they wouldn't be in their current state. He'd told him countless times that Nazism was not the way forward, that their current boss' human, as well as German, values were twisted for his own gain, but of course the younger knew better. Of course. Didn't it go without saying that Ludwig, barely a hundred years old, was far more experienced in every way than the Prussian Empire? The empire that had given him everything that he had today after putting his life on the line too many times to count to achieve it, to fight for his people's rights, his land, for his continued existance. And for what? To be reduced to little more than a state within a new nation, virtually ignored by his own bruder other than when he was having overly ridiculous orders and demands barked in his face with little or no respect for Prussia whatsoever. No appreciation, recognition, nothing. Carted off to gottverdammt Serbia to sign endless streams of paperwork, expected to watch the murders of innocent men, just for the sake of pleasing the psychotic nutcase of a world leader. Who knew that Austria would even allow the spawn of worthless scum to roam the earth freely in the first place? It annoyed him to no end that he'd just flung Hitler onto him after the 'Great War' and expected him to simply accept it. Like he was expected to leave his own moral values on the wayside, to allow his capital, his life and everything he'd ever believed in to be stripped from him. Like he was expected to acknowledge his younger brother as superior and just drop dead one day. There was no doubt in his mind that Ludwig didn't need him anymore, and he hadn't even seen Bri, or Leeny, come to think of it, in months. Not that Bri was even his capital, anyway. Even she had left him. All he had now was his military, the heart of his crumbling empire and even that was fading from his grasp. Eventually, his people would desert him also; he'd already noticed that he felt the beating hearts of civilians had become fainter, almost incoherent. Leaning over his paper-strewn desk, the officer's crimson eyes bore emotionlessly into those of the Serb in an attempt to intimidate him, the faintest hint of a grimace still visible on his face, completely disinterested in what he had to say and yet he waited still for him to stop speaking, dismissing his final statement before he'd so much as uttered the last word. "War both needs and generates certian virtues." Gilbert began, his expression hardening, spitting out each word forcefully as though it physically hurt to utter them in such company, "Valor, veracity, the spirit of obedience, the habit of discipline." He would have to have been an idiot to not sense the animosity that seemed to be radiating from the man, and yet he found that, frankly, he couldn't care less, continuing as though it didn't affect him, "Obedience and discipline cannot exist without an incentive to unquestioningly follow." Shrugging as though that one statement explained everything he sat, perched on the edge of his seat, reaching over to grab a piece of documentation in one swift movement, frowning slightly as he looked it over once more. "Two thousand, three hundred executions over the past two weeks, und thirty unrelated deaths," he stated, completely void of emotion as he unceremoniously shoved the papers in tbe man's face, "und yet you stand here, persistent as ever. As a nation, I'd have expected you to be currently in a state of emotional turmoil." The one thing that constantly bothered him was the nation's apparent optimism, or so to speak. He could probably murder half of the goddamn country's population and he would show little or no sign of weakness as a result. Date: November 3, 1941 Location: Army barracks in Serbia Outfit: Nazi SS military uniform Music: Sleep, MCR Notes: Crappy post is crappy. Sorry. And sorry for the delay. I'll post at weekends without fail starting now.

[STEFAN STOJKOVIC, SERBIA]

Tags: Prussia
Outfit: Royal Yugoslav Army uniform
Word Count: 743
Date: 03.11.1941
Location: Serbia
Notes: Sorry for the wait and I know I started rambling a lot.

---

Eight months. Eight stinking months since he had been invaded. Eight months since he had last seen his capitol looking healthy. Eight months since he had nearly met death. In eight months, so much had happened. Who could have predicted any of this? He blamed it all on the Germans, that heartless officer put in charge to be exact. That cursed officer with the red eyes. Serbia was fighting for the sake of his homeland. What was a German doing here anyways? The Nazis never made any sense.

For as steadfast as he seemed now, the internal struggle was always there for the personification of Serbia, After all, he had seen his family literally wrenched away from him, who was to blame him for the resentment and the hatred for these injustices to his people? Now, everything he had stood for, fought for, was being called wrong, inferior The German way was supposedly the best way, but Serbia didn't believe it. Sure, he fought in their army, but he had no choice otherwise. Fight for a government he hated or be sent to prison. Though he often regretted his decision, at least in the army, he had a job to do. He had something to take his mind off the suffering of the people and the longing for his capitol. The Germans wanted to break the spirit of the Serbs, but that would never happen.

Everyday, Stefan felt another life be taken away, another heart go cold. And yet, as much as it hurt to know what happened to the people, he could do nothing. He felt like the world was crumbling around him, but he couldn't forget about the partisans and of his God, oddly enough, the same God that the Germans believed in. How did God pick sides in times like these? Did he even side with one group or another? Questions to be asked but left unanswered.

In a very small form of rebellion which wasn't likely to get him in any serious trouble, Serbia did not sit down as the russia had indicated for him to do. No one was going to die from something like that. Serbia could lie through his teeth about why he couldn't or shouldn't sit down. Either way, he would stand all day if he had to. And besides, this wasn't an order technically. It was a suggestion and no one said that you had to follow suggestions.

The Serb didn't care about how similar he was to the Prussian. The only thing that registered was that they were both in the same place and on different levels. The German had the Nazi government standing behind him, the Serb was just another soldier. Serbia held his cold and hate filled emotions leaving his face unreadable as to what exactly he was thinking. The officer didn't intimidate him. It would take a lot more than that to make this Serb bow down to a foreign power. As the Prussian droned on, only one sentence formed in Serbia's mind. One does not fight for what he fully against. A few more sentences came into being as well, but Serbia kept them all to himself. Any man can pick up a gun and shoot it. A soldier follows orders because he has been taught to do that and he believed in his commanding officer. I don't believe in you. I will not obey to a master I do not trust. I want to please, yes, but not to a group I have never seen except through their military.

First off, Serbia was in no way optimistic. He just wasn't ready to fully comprehend the situation he was in. He still wanted to be in charge and free. How had he gone from being the most important man in the area to being nothing more than a Private? He wasn't going to be beaten down easily either. Serbia had no intentions on submitting without a fight. "My mind is not yours to control, Nazi. You may have turned Beograd into rubble and find sport out of hanging people from street lamps, but you haven not destroyed the people and you have not destroyed me. I don't need your numbers to tell me how many people have fallen on your account. You have yet to kill our pride and making martyrs out of women and children will only remind us of why we should oppose your and your government."

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign,top][atrb=style, background: url(http://i1095.photobucket.com/albums/i473/shahal_sparda/Hetalia/prussia1.jpg) center bottom no-repeat; outline: 3px solid #800000; width: 500px; height: 480px; padding: 0px;, bTable] As he allowed the Serb to continue to speak he noted, almost without fully acknowledging the fact, that the man's every action did little more than to fuel his growing dislike, despite himself, all trace of sympathy slowly evaporating as though they have never existed at all, and that face. So sure of himself, almost radiating with what he could only describe as self-pride in a way that seemed to challenge him, the curl of his lips as he spoke, barely even bothering to conceal any form of pure hatred that he clearly felt towards the albino, becoming increasingly difficult ot ignore as he half sat, half stood, looming over his desk, arms tensing visibly in their current position, braced against the desk, as he glared back at the other, seemingly mimicking the growing animosity that seemed to burn in his eyes as he continued, his voice seeming to become quieter in the back of Gilbert's head, becoming little more than background music as his thoughts, or rather lack thereof, occupied his mind. Even if he had tried, Gilbert found himself unable to overlook even the slightest thing that the other may, or may not, be doing; in the sense that every action of his seemed to irritate him, from his supposedly, or rather in Gilbert's mind, obnoxious stance, and the twist of his lips as he spoke never ceased to annoy, to the extent that he found a quickly rising anger welling up, despite the fact that he knew himself that there was no direction to his anger; in no particular direction, at nobody in particular, his increasing fustrasion that he had somehow managed to retain over the course of months, years, finally surfacing in one overwhelming wave, threatening to overcome him....And that final act in ignoring his perfectly reasonable offer-- no, disobeying his superior, was enough for him to feed on his own concealed rage, and as it filled the back of his mind, threatening to engulf any form of rationality that remained, and he welcomed it. Just when the tension that may or may not exist only in his head had become too much to bear, and he was on the verge of yelling at the inanimate object that he had found to be clenched in a tight fist, all conversation on the original topic forgotten as his grip around the object tightened, not even bothering to see what it was, and though he saw the Serb's mouth moving up and down as though he were speaking, whatever he said was lost to him. Barely allowing the other to continue with his seemingly relentless tirade of attempting to make him feel guilty. His grip on the object tightened so much that if he wasn't careful he could break it; he could feel it bend under his force, and all of a sudden anger washed over him that was too overwhelming to ignore, and he could just feel the rage rising, suffocating him, until he was about ready to burst, and stood with a start, the look in his eyes ending all conversation, and a somewhat confused silence washed over him momentarily, before all hell broke loose. How many nations knew of his demotion? Was the entire world laughing behind this back!? He was just finding out about this NOW! Or perhaps he'd always known. Or maybve the topic of his becoming little more than a state had never entered the conversation, although this thoguht was abandoned almost as soon as it was thought. Under any other circumstances, he would've probably said that he was overreacting, though this was a perfect opportunity for Gilbert to let out all of his feelings of stress, confusion, frustration and anger in one huge wave. Without even pausing, a long stream of curses and god knows what else erupted from him as he virtually screamed into the faces of the Serb, finding himself leaning over his desk to grab blindly for the collar of his shirt, tugging him forcefully towards him, slamming the other's chest against his desk, although he was beyond caring. He didn't pause to fully acknowledge what was going on. Hell, the Serb could've attacked him now and he wouldn't have fully acknowledged it for a while. He was acting purely on impulse, completely and utterly dependant on that animal instinct that every being undoubtedly possessed somewhere inside, all else forgotten completely. His words were virtually incoherent even to him, as they came out in an endless stream, though they still didn't seem to be coming out fast enough, as he verbally attacked his fellow nation, who most likely had no clue whatsoever as to why he'd suddenly begun this enraged tirade, apart from the odd phrase that was barely comprehensible. "Call me a fucking Nazi again, und I swear to Gott I'll blow your face in! You hear!?" Date: November 3, 1941 Location: Army barracks in Serbia Outfit: Nazi SS military uniform Music: Sleep - My Chemical Romance Notes: Woo, my mother gave me a reason to feel the need to take out my frustrasion in this thread ¬.¬ And yus. He finally exploded! 8D Sorry that it's badly written, and is generally awful, though. And it took so damn long again. I'm so sorry!

[STEFAN STOJKOVIC, SERBIA]

Tags: Prussia
Outfit: Royal Yugoslav Army uniform
Word Count: 981
Date: 03.11.1941
Location: Serbia
Notes: What he said: Bastard. I will call you what you are, loathsome German...Get the hell out of my country! As for the quick turn around, a lot of things put in a really irrate mood. Perfect for this thread. Sorry if this is too graphic, but I was in a really angsty mood while writing this.

---

While many things could be said of the Serb, stupid was not one of them. Regardless of what his subordinates said, he was not a "stupid brother". Impulsive, yes. Aggressive, yes. Irrational, yes. He was smart enough to know that attacking Prussia could only mean bad things for him. He knew that there was nothing to be gained politically from attacked a superior officer. Though, by now, the man was practically bathed in hatred all aimed at the Prussian. Life in Yugoslavia was at an all time low. He could feel the anger of the people, of his army, of himself. It was like a swirling ball of fire fueled only by hatred and contained by sheer will to keep it that way. Just looking at the Prussian made Serbia sick to his stomach. Destroying the beautiful mahogany wood clearly carved by skilled hands would be a blessing if only to knock the Germans down a peg or two. However, Stefan had no such luxory. He knew enough to know that the officer could do whatever he wanted and Stefan would have no choice but to obey out of fear for the people. His hands were firmly bound behind his back by the people. Civilian lives, particularly Serb lives, meant a lot to the nation.

Everything Serbia did was in an effort to mock the Germans. He wanted them to know Serbia was beaten down, but not defeated. He wanted to warn the Germans to watch their backs for a thief of lives in the night. In a heartbeat, Serbia knew he could slaughter dozens of German lives and no matter what torture was inflicted later, the state could not fall. He wanted the Croatians, with that smug grin and mocking voice, to perish beside their German allies. The whole world should know the might of the Serbian Empire. If only that were truly possible. Though he could wear none of his former medals, the Germans had run out of uniforms and for the time being, Serbia was permitted to wear his own uniform. It would save someone the job of taking measurements and adjusting clothes anyways. Even the Yugoslav Army uniform was in mockery of German unpreparedness. The great Aryan race couldn't even count out enough uniforms to clothe the soldiers?

Anyone who walked by that makeshift office would have felt the heat of the hatred and tensions building between the two. It was only a matter of who would snap first. Serbia didn't want to be seen as the aggressor. For the time, he was content to wait, to contain his boiling mass of loathing. The emotions were raw, their source unknown and forgotten. The tension was wearing thin, soon one side would have to snap, to attack, to release the building energy. Once the energy was released, the whole situation would explode into pandemonium. That was the way of things. Restraining it would be as futile as covering a geyser with a sheet of tissue paper. Serbia was determined to minimize his role and at the very least, give himself the defense that he did not crack first. There wasn't much longer to wait. Prussia seemed to be reaching boiling point, unable, or unwilling to restrain it.

The dam broke. All hell broke loose. In his poor German, Serbia couldn't keep up with the stream of curses. Not that he wanted to even if he could. The meaning was clear enough by the burning red eyes. To the Serb, those eyes were ferocious. They represented all the hate that the officer had built up over an unimaginable number of years to be released in one great burst. Though violence was expected, Serbia wasn't prepared for it and barely had time to react as his shirt collar was grabbed, forcefully restricting his breathing for a few moments. The strength of nations is superhuman for sure, but Serbia was surprised by how much the war had taken from him by the sheer force of Prussia's downward pull. First his chest slammed into the edge of the desk, effectively knocking the wind out of him and then his head followed. Sparks flew before the Serb's eyes on impact, feeling like someone had slapped him with a concrete fly swatter. He could feel blood welling up in his nose, tears of pain forming in his eyes. At the last second, Stefan had bit his tongue and now that too was bleeding.

It took several minutes before he could even register what just happened. He brought his hands to the desk, pushing his face off of it, watching the blood drip onto the desk from his nose and mouth. His nose was bent at an odd angle, the pain slowly filling his face. Dull at first, but more intense, the epicenter at the man's now broken nose. "Bas'ard. I vill 'all vhat you are, yoafsome Ye'man...Yet 'he hell out of 'y coun'ry!" His words were filled with spite and frustration, but with a broken nose and slurred speech, it would be nearly impossible to take him seriously. At the last sentence, he looked up, rage burning hot in his eyes. Blood covered the bottom part of his face, dripping onto his coat and the desk, dangerously close to ruining some of the documents. He wiped his face with one sleeve, succeeding only in smearing the blood further and ruining his coat. Serbia was breathing hard, gripping with table with one hand for stability, and leaning over it with his upper body. Though bleeding heavily, the Serb wore an arrogant smirk, half mocking the Prussian for his childish outburst. Whether by coincidence or not, Stefan felt his lungs get tight and his breathing restrict to a wheeze (I find that word hard to take seriously). There was a flash of panic, but replaced almost as quickly as it came by that taunting expression.

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign,top][atrb=style, background: url(http://i1095.photobucket.com/albums/i473/shahal_sparda/Hetalia/prussia1.jpg) center bottom no-repeat; outline: 3px solid #800000; width: 500px; height: 480px; padding: 0px;, bTable] (okai. i've got this here now, so I can add paragraphs to it on my phone, and get it done faster) Date: November 3, 1941 Location: Army barracks in Serbia Outfit: Nazi SS military uniform Music: Sleep - My Chemical Romance Notes: