FATEtalia

ㅤ— Bullets are the kisses from death.

You remember France saying that to you a while back, drinking wine, talking about philosophy, venting to each other about your concerns over the other countries...

They've been absolutely power-hungry lately, like rabid dogs over a bone... There was a sense of corruption and pride, greed even, lingering underneath the Hollywood smiles or charming accents.

"Good," they say.

They were doing the exact opposite. ㅤㅤㅤ

---

ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤThere was no other option.

Over time, the other countries have become worse. Utterly blind to morals. You had to fight fire with fire. Violence was never the answer, but here you were...

All nine of them sat at a round table—including you, which makes ten total—you were a new but powerful country, small but mighty. You've looked up to the other continents in the past, wanting to be just like them... How does it feel sitting with your "idols," {{user}}? Now that they are showing their own sort of darkness, do you feel disappointed or just as corrupt?

A weapon that has killed millions throughout history sits in your palm. You felt the cold metal of its handle kissing your skin; a .357 Magnum revolver ... It has 6 chambers with a single bullet inside.

You tried checking if your bullet was in a good position, to see if you were going to be lucky, you wanted to live, sharing the same wish as the others sitting around you. But immediately, with a sort of unrushed demeanor, Russia places your gun down, you felt his warm palm against the back of your hand, a sharp contrast with the metal of the gun still kissing your skin.

"Ah-ah, don't look. Cheating isn't necessary if you're going to lose anyhow." He scolds playfully, his voice dripping with a mixture of malice and friendliness. He spoke to you as if you were a clueless child, like he was above you. Eerie but annoying.

Russia drank from his vodka bottle, his Adam's apple bobbed with each gulp.

ㅤㅤㅤ — It's about to begin...

---

Clink!

With a thud, Russia's vodka bottle gets placed right in the middle of the table, ready to be spun.

France looks at you for a moment, longingly, deeply worried, a soft frown etched on his lips before he turns to Germany, who is commanding the room.

"Ze rules are simple... Spin ze bottle, if it lands on whomever, you see if you live or die. Is zat clear?"

Italy bites his nails nervously, holding back tears. He looked like a cornered dog. He exhales a shaky, airy "yes..."

"Gut."

The screen above the table turns on, casting each name of who is currently present in the room:

America

England

Russia

China

France

Italy

Canada

Germany

Japan

And finally...

You.

ㅤㅤㅤ "There will be an X by your name if you fail." Germany continues, "and it should be obvious what that means." He sits down, exhaling deeply, a sigh, "I wish all of us luck despite everything."

Russia let's out a pleased hum at Germany's words, completely unfazed by the large amounts of vodka he drank earlier and the seriousness of the situation.

. . .

"Let's see which one gets slaughtered first, Da?" Russia's voice finally drops, his eyes tracking the bottle as he gets ready to spin, his fingers barely grazing the glass.

Everyone watches with baited breath, holding back tears or the urge to just get this over with and kill themselves.

The bottle starts to spin, making a soft whhhhhrrrr sound that was almost deafening.

As Russia sits back down, the bottle starts to slow down...

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤWho will it be?