Broken, Battered, Beaten (Countryhumans AU)

Prologue

America awoke with a start. His head was absolutely throbbing, pain shooting from his forehead and exploding to the back of his skull. A small pinpoint in the middle of his forehead, all the way to the back of his head where it felt as if his skull had shattered. "God... Another one...? It's almost fucking Christmas..." he grumbled lowly to himself as he slowly sat up, eyes squeezed shut to try and relieve some of the pain. 

For the past nearly seven years, America had been getting these violent headaches. Occasionally it felt more akin to heartburn. They became more and more frequent as the year of 1991 drew ever nearer. Assassinations. He felt every single damn one of them. A political leader kicked the bucket after a bullet to the head? America got a god damn headache. Until now, 1963 was the worst one he'd ever felt. 

It started with a mayor. It came as a shock to most of the country America represented. Mayors were practically the lowest of the low when it came to political power. The most they did was sit and look pretty, or put up a legislation or two if the city was important enough. The headache was dull, and left quickly. America almost mistook it for another regular migraine, if he hadn't have seen the news that day. They never found the culprit. The only piece of evidence found was a vodka bottle labelled in Russian. Of course, the USSR, and Soviet himself, completely denied anything to do with the assassination. That didn't stop the United States government from sparking another Red Scare, however. 

A few months later, another mayor. This time, no evidence. Four mayors were killed during the year of 1984. "Ironic..." America mumbled to himself as he read the headline on his corkboard hanging precariously from the wall. It had grown heavy with news clippings, string, and thumbtacks. "I remember when that book first came out..."

1985's mayoral death count jumped from four to sixteen total. One every month, each one killed in a different home state. Idaho, Alabama, Ohio, Wyoming, and the other states not typically in the eye of the public, frequented America's D.C. residence during that year. All had come to the same conclusion. Something larger, beyond mayoral assassinations, was afoot. 

'86 brought the first death of a governor. The mayors were dropping like flies, America's dull headaches practically endless. Sleep was difficult. The news started gaining traction internationally. No evidence to bring a killer-- or fifty-- to justice. Soviet and his government retained deniability as America lost his sanity. 

'87 was when the first celebrity of many was detained on national television after even daring to praise the USSR in any manner. A few more governors killed, and a small breach into Washington D.C. led to a failed assassination attempt on a Supreme Court member. America's headaches, less frequent now, were sharper and more painful with each governor. Still, little evidence to be found. Whoever was doing this was clean and concise. 

'88 and all fifty states had lost a mayor. Some from important cities, others from a backwater town that couldn't be found on a map. The governor death count was climbing. Another attempt was made on a Supreme Court member's life in August, this time it was successful. America's headache that day put him out of commission for a week. A scream was heard from the building where the gunshot came from. Unfortunately, the building was set ablaze and collapsed quickly, killing five police officers and three firemen in the process. Two charred bodies were found, one next to a sniper rifle. The culprit was thought to have been found and dead, some well-known fascist fanatic, as the rest of the year was uneventful. "Damn fools..." America said, sipping the fresh coffee from the coffee pot sitting in his room. 

'89 was another, rather uneventful year. America was free from headaches for about ten months. The US was recovering, though many states had completely shut down out of fear. Then came November and December. Three governors killed per month. America couldn't get out of bed for much of it. Sleep was lost on him. 

1990 saw the final of the fifty governors killed. The United States was in shambles. D.C. locked itself up entirely. America had began to blame his fellow countries. Many a phone call he made ended in him screaming conspiracies. 

'91 had a few more Supreme Court judges and Congressmen, those of whom refused to stay within the D.C. lockdown, killed. America himself had started working on more and more conspiracy theories. His brother wanted a replay of 1812. Mexico wanted his states back. America's own father wanted to rule again! But America wouldn't let that happen! He'd had it all figured out--

He could finally hear the screams outside his window. 

The ringing of the headache subsided enough from the miracle drug that was caffeine to reveal the rest of the world outside. It was three in the morning and the entire city was screaming. From his window, he could count at least ten buildings on fire just a few blocks away from him. Soldiers were running through the streets but they weren't... American. He couldn't see them very well except for one key detail. Every one of them had a red glint coming from their hat, a red star. 

Rushing to crackle the tiny TV to life, America was met with an urgent message from the news. "The president! The president is dead!" the news anchor screamed, his own eyes appearing as tired as America's. He held his finger up to his ear. "And we've got... we've gotten word that the vice president has just been killed! Soviet soldiers are marching the streets of Washington D.C.! We've--"

America shut off the television the moment he heard the cracking, breaking wood of his solid oak front door at the first floor. He tripped over himself to get to any of the four loaded guns sitting in the drawers of his night stand. Time came to a still as America felt wooden splinters lightly bounce off his face and he froze from the sound of a voice deeper than the depths of the ocean; its pressure pressed every square inch of thick fear onto him and nearly crushed him. 

"Step back from those guns or that headache will feel stronger than you've ever known," Soviet snarled in a low, gravelly voice as the clicks of guns were being raised against America. 

He was trapped in his pajamas. His brain felt as if it was thudding against his skull with each throb, and he couldn't stop the tears from flowing out of his eyes. That only made the fucking commie grin, running his tongue along his bear-like teeth as he watched America's legs give out from under him. 

Soviet hummed, walking forward as a laser aimed in the center of America's forehead. "Welcome to the Soviet Union."