Armed and Fandomizing

Palace of...What?

Alice had told America and England what had happened. The two were a little shell-shocked about what took place in her place yesterday. 

"But we don't even know who the hostage really is," England muttered deadpanned.

"I am confident it's Amelia," Alice said firmly, "I have checked over and over with the generals around the world of reports on 2p Hetalian damage, and they do not take a casualty hostage," she reported professionally and somewhat desperately, "and cross-evaluating that information with the input General Western Russia has provided they would not put a mundane person in a deep dungeon-like area, underfed, and heavily damaged to the point where said hostage is unrecognizable-"

"General," America cut in abruptly, "Chill. You're starting to sound like my government officials."

"Ah," Alice settled herself back into her seat, seeing that she was steadily sliding up to the edge.

"So we really don't know," America murmured.

"But there's a chance," Alice pleaded, "At least save both Anya and whomever."

The two nations exchange looks. England swears he's never seen America look so serious in a war ever since...well, ever since that time.

"So," America thought for a moment, "Amelia's...where?" he decides to put Alice, and maybe a little of himself, at ease.

"That's the thing," Alice glared down at her lap, "All we have is that Anya and...the hostage are underneath somewhere in London, England. Under the 'Palace of-' something."

"Here, she's here somewhere!" America jumped in his seat, "We just need to find this palace thing!"

"But what is this palace thing?" Alice murmured.

America turned toward England, grabbing him by the shoulders, "England! Do you have any places that start with 'Palace of'?!"

"Uh," England tried racking his brain for one, in amidst of America's sudden bullet of attention at him, "The Palace of...Westminister? But it burned down a long time ago-"

"Then that's probably not going to work," America sunk back into his chair.

"No, wait! It probably would!" Alice slid to the edge of her chair, as America and England followed, perking up, "The Palace of Westminister is the Houses of Parliment! It burned down in 1834!"

"...I feel like I'm the only place where things burn down and they actually come back the same," America muttered.

"Well, um, yes, that was 1812, but none of that!" Alice quivered excitedly. British history was something she has a good handle on. Not entirely, but she has some pride in it, "The Houses of Parliment are-"

"The Elizabeth Tower," England breathed, "Big Ben!"

~~~~~

Anya wasn't getting away any closer to the exit, as far as she could feel. The figure felt like some sort of big dog in her arms. Carrying her around made it feel like she cracked a few more bones on the way over. The underground was a maze and some places were laden with cigarette smoke, while others had guards crawling all over the area. She had already steamed through two guard-laden areas, but she doesn't feel like she's any closer to out.

"Where is the exit of this place?" Anya muttered, "Surely there's one. I swear, I thought we were close..."

"Up," they murmured softly, the word almost went unheard by Anya.

The Russian quirked a brow at the person's word once she processed it. Up? Up ahead? It's been nothing but a tangle of halls with no indication of progress. Anya didn't say it allowed, but the stranger's consciousness is practically threadbare. How would they know anything face forward-

Wait, no, this person was thresh-held carried in her arms. Hearing and seeing that no one else was around, Anya stopped in her tracks and looked directly up at the ceiling. There were fainted murals on the ceiling, illuminated by the lamp-light lining the walls of the mineshaft-like underground. 

Historical murals. The burning of the Palace of Westminister.

"О, за любовь Матери-России, король-дракон, сам," the Russian muttered under her breath in one string. History might be a Hetalian forte, but she wasn't the England fan. The Slaviks and North American Bros were more of her speed.

She felt a tug at her scarf. Anya looked down and was met with a pair of dull cerulean eyes. American eyes.

"I can 'elp."

~~~~~

Being cared around had, or so they've said, regained most of their strength. Or more specifically, her strength.

"I 'eard you callin' me 'they' and stuff, so jus' tellin' ya," the woman roughly chuckled and was met with a little, firm pat on the cheek, supposedly a telltale to stop talking.

"Don't do that," Anya chided worriedly, "you'll break your vocal chords or something."

"But ya need help," she pointed out in a murmuring whisper, "ya don know anythin' about the Palace of Wes'min'ster," her voice slurred.

"Unfortunately, da, I don't," Anya growled. She had been speedwalking through this dimly lit hall trying to strain her hearing for any enemies. The Russian general didn't hear any other footsteps. Did none of the 2p Hetalians come down in this area? Did they go too far...down?

"Nah, look up," she ordered again.

Anya grumbled and looked up again, "Even if we knew anything about the Palace of Westminister, how is that going to help us?"

"Ain't these halls forked, or somethin'?" the woman whispered.

"Da," Anya stressed the Russian word with an American drawl, making it sound more like 'duh'. It was a quirk that she was shot down for, but at the moment, she didn't give a care, because this woman probably took it as American. She's American...right?

"Didya look up, then?" her head tilted to the side, her eyelids crusted with blood, the only thing looking clean is the color of her eyes.

"Hm," Anya glanced up at the murals again, "You mean," she licked her lips in thought, "The murals...they tell the story of the Palace of Westminister," she nodded, beckoning her to continue, "So if we follow the murals that tell the story correctly..."

"Then Imma guessin' it leads to the exit," the lady in her arms smiled.  

Now that the two stranded women stuck in the middle of a 2p Hetalian heck-hole-of-a-headquarters, have found their way out, they start making more progress.

Goes to show that a little history lesson, here and there, wouldn't hurt to learn. One day it could save your life. Y'know, if you were a Hetalian, that is. Those humans in that subcategory that always seem to end up in the craziest situations.