First Person: [Chocolate brown eyes stare, for what seemed like an eternity, into nothing. Forever-stretching blackness, that reminded the small male of the sensation, as well as the sight, of squeezing your eyes shut. Slightly blurred stars on the edge of your vision, prickling against your eyelids until you’re forced to open them. He blinked, his eyes flickering a bit as he felt... at least a little bit disoriented. Confused. Last he remembered, he was sleeping in his own bed, on the floor of his old, but well-kept home. A small dog, Shiba-inu in species, pressed up against his back as he slept. That warmth was gone, and he was sleeping on something else—sitting. He was... sitting. In a seat, in his comfortable day-wear as opposed to his pyjamas.] ...I appear to have awoken to a very strange dream. [He spoke, unusually calm about the somewhat startling situation.] That, or perhaps someone is playing a very cruel trick on me. [He Frowned, looking out the window. The sight confused him, as it looked nothing like his comfortable home in Japan. It was all too flat, and much too... vast. Even in his own home... there were always other buildings in sight. After all, his land was very evolved. There were not many places near Tokyo like this.] I will certainly be making a complaint to whomever is in control of this machine. I cannot afford to be away from home. I have too many things to take care of. [He Frowned, fretting quietly to himself as he moved to stand. To find exactly who was in charge, and how he got here.
Third Person: It definitely wasn't one of those days that Honda enjoyed remembering. If anything, he would likely prefer to put days like this behind him. Forget they had ever happened, and move along with his seemingly never-ending life. So was the curse of a living representation of such a large nation, he would suppose. More than once, he had cursed the fact that he would never die. Especially on days like this. The ground underneath his feet felt gritty. Tossed and churned by the footfalls of many a soldier passing over its soil. The air around him smelled like smoke. And not a nice, smoky fire, or the leftover scent from fireworks. No. It was the smell of gunpowder and shrapnel. Burnt earth and cloth. The smell that Honda would, honestly, compare to that of death.
In one hand was his old Sword. Likely a strange thing to use on the Battlefield, but certainly not misused. What he couldn't shoot at such a close range, the steel of his blade had dispatched just as easily. But right now, the stained steel was going ignored. His Right hand lifted up at about eyelevel. A Type 26 Revolver Held, its barrel pointed at an Enemy that he had told himself. Many times. That he couldn't hesitate to shoot. Hesitation meant he was holding back. Holding back showed weakness. He couldn’t hold back. His life... and the lives of his people depended on that. Yet...
He was hesitating. And he hated himself for it.
In his sights was Yao. The Chinese man who, he would never quite admit whom he'd admired for nearly his entire life. This man meant so much to him. But right now. They were on opposite sides. He gritted his teeth, his cheek stinging a little. A Slight cut on his right cheek, a grazed bullet wound, dripping red down the pale skin of the short male's cheek. He opened his mouth, words not quite making it off his lips. What could he say? There was nothing... that would make this better. Words wouldn't win a war. "...I Hate this." the Japanese man said, his finger tense on his gun. Finger DARING to squeeze the trigger, but not enough to fire it at the long-haired Chinaman. "All of this. And who Do I Have to Blame. You? Roshia? I am not even sure anymore. Tell me. Who do I blame, Yao." His voice was quiet, but there was no quiver to it. No. He was standing strong. But it didn't mean that he didn't feel just a little bit lost.
{ Japan || Axis Powers Hetalia || No Reserve || 2 of 2 }
[Chocolate brown eyes stare, for what seemed like an eternity, into nothing. Forever-stretching blackness, that reminded the small male of the sensation, as well as the sight, of squeezing your eyes shut. Slightly blurred stars on the edge of your vision, prickling against your eyelids until you’re forced to open them. He blinked, his eyes flickering a bit as he felt... at least a little bit disoriented. Confused. Last he remembered, he was sleeping in his own bed, on the floor of his old, but well-kept home. A small dog, Shiba-inu in species, pressed up against his back as he slept. That warmth was gone, and he was sleeping on something else—sitting. He was... sitting. In a seat, in his comfortable day-wear as opposed to his pyjamas.]
...I appear to have awoken to a very strange dream.
[He spoke, unusually calm about the somewhat startling situation.]
That, or perhaps someone is playing a very cruel trick on me.
[He Frowned, looking out the window. The sight confused him, as it looked nothing like his comfortable home in Japan. It was all too flat, and much too... vast. Even in his own home... there were always other buildings in sight. After all, his land was very evolved. There were not many places near Tokyo like this.]
I will certainly be making a complaint to whomever is in control of this machine. I cannot afford to be away from home. I have too many things to take care of.
[He Frowned, fretting quietly to himself as he moved to stand. To find exactly who was in charge, and how he got here.
Third Person: It definitely wasn't one of those days that Honda enjoyed remembering. If anything, he would likely prefer to put days like this behind him. Forget they had ever happened, and move along with his seemingly never-ending life. So was the curse of a living representation of such a large nation, he would suppose. More than once, he had cursed the fact that he would never die. Especially on days like this.
The ground underneath his feet felt gritty. Tossed and churned by the footfalls of many a soldier passing over its soil. The air around him smelled like smoke. And not a nice, smoky fire, or the leftover scent from fireworks. No. It was the smell of gunpowder and shrapnel. Burnt earth and cloth. The smell that Honda would, honestly, compare to that of death.
In one hand was his old Sword. Likely a strange thing to use on the Battlefield, but certainly not misused. What he couldn't shoot at such a close range, the steel of his blade had dispatched just as easily. But right now, the stained steel was going ignored. His Right hand lifted up at about eyelevel. A Type 26 Revolver Held, its barrel pointed at an Enemy that he had told himself. Many times. That he couldn't hesitate to shoot. Hesitation meant he was holding back. Holding back showed weakness. He couldn’t hold back. His life... and the lives of his people depended on that. Yet...
He was hesitating. And he hated himself for it.
In his sights was Yao. The Chinese man who, he would never quite admit whom he'd admired for nearly his entire life. This man meant so much to him. But right now. They were on opposite sides. He gritted his teeth, his cheek stinging a little. A Slight cut on his right cheek, a grazed bullet wound, dripping red down the pale skin of the short male's cheek. He opened his mouth, words not quite making it off his lips. What could he say? There was nothing... that would make this better. Words wouldn't win a war. "...I Hate this." the Japanese man said, his finger tense on his gun. Finger DARING to squeeze the trigger, but not enough to fire it at the long-haired Chinaman. "All of this. And who Do I Have to Blame. You? Roshia? I am not even sure anymore. Tell me. Who do I blame, Yao." His voice was quiet, but there was no quiver to it. No. He was standing strong. But it didn't mean that he didn't feel just a little bit lost.