comission stories!

Comission 1 (Russia's Plight)

This first comission was made for franklydear ,check them out, they are an amazing writer!

Okay, now onto the story!

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"Why are you calling me again?" France groaned over the call, holding the phone in between his shoulder and cheek as he busied himself with procrastinating at work.
"You have the last Fabergé egg, France." The stoic Russian murmured in the device and fixed his turtleneck collar, looking at the framed picture of his father sitting calmly on his desk. He would not be happy with what Russia is doing right now; buying back his grandfather's overly expensive possessions is something the USSR always strongly detested. However, many years have passed since the old Soviet walked this Earth; Russia can't afford to live like him in this modern age.
"Ah, yes, that." France coughed slightly and looked to his computer, typing a series of codes into a program.
"Ah Russia, I would like to return the precious little ornament; but the egg brings me profit. It is almost close to paying out its almost six million dollar worth in ticket sales." France chuckled, but received no response from the other line for quite some time.
"France, I know the Basket of Flowers was a wedding present from my grandfather; however you have divorced from your spouse since then, I would like to have it back in my possession with the others." Russia finally grumbled after several minutes of awkward silence.
"Russia, Russia, Russia! You misunderstood, that is not why I am keen on keeping the egg! I will repeat myself once more; it is bringing me profit." France chuckled again, but the same silence fell on the other side of the line.
"I will pay you for the egg..." Russia muttered, making France sigh and take the phone in his hand.
"That wouldn't work for me, Russia. Imagine the profit it would bring me in the next ten, twenty years with all the tourists trying to catch a glimpse of it; you'd certainly give me less money than that." France cleared his throat and looked to his precious Monet painting on the wall, frowning as various ideas swirled in his head. Then, a seemingly brilliant one struck him.
"I am willing to trade for an item that would bring me just as much profit. The item doesn't have to be of an equal value, just of an equal profit." He grinned as he heard the colder country mumbled to himself; most likely considering the offer.

"I am not giving you any of my grandfather's possessions." He growled into the conversation, making France deflate slightly before he said:
"I will take your father's heritage as well; anything that will attract tourists as much as the precious Basket of Flowers in my museum." This time, France was the one with a tone to his voice, suddenly feeling as if he is over this conversation.
"My father's heritage?" Russia questioned.
"Oui.Rare pistols, deactivated nuclear bombs, his hat! Anything."
And so, Russia found himself in front of a hangar somewhere west of Moscow; not near any sign of civilization. He hasn't been here in years, never really having any interest in his father's old junk. But, if France sees a value in any of these items, he'll gladly trade these useless gadgets and artifacts for the egg. Thankfully he came alone, so no one else would see these major wastes of money his father liked to play with.
The large, iron door opened with an ear splitting screech, revealing the dark, dusty inside to the towering man. He was hit with a strong smell of stale air, moisture and wax as he entered the rusting hangar. Boxes upon boxes of random items stacked up to the ceiling, materials strewn on the floor and faded paperwork covering the rotting work desks. The place looks like it was abandoned suddenly, not that Russia cared much; all he needs to do is find something seemingly worthwhile and get out.
He turned his phone flashlight on and walked over to the closest pile of boxes. With one hand, he pushed all the stacks of paper and folders away while the other shined all over the pile in hopes of finding something eye catching. He came across a broken gun, a small umbrella, cigarette boxes, coats of all size and material, accounting books and a moldy pair of red velvet gloves, but nothing that seemed even remotely interesting. He soon searched through a different pile of items, then another one, then another. Finally, after what seemed like hours and hours of searching, he came across a collection of his father's prized daggers, one from every territory he conquered and controlled. He wasn't sure why these daggers had been abandoned in a place like this, but the question didn't entertain him long enough for an answer.