Drip.

Drip.

Shot.

Drip.

Drip. 

"WOHIN GING DIESER ABSCHAUM?!" (According to the translator, German for "Where'd that scum go?") I stifled a laugh upon hearing the roar of the livid German policeman. So much brawn, yet so little brain. He didn't even think of looking up. Oh well. His loss. I drew my dagger, aimed it, and threw it, making it pierce straight through the back of his head. Jumping off the fire ladder attached to the building, I collected my dagger off the idiot's corpse and went off on my merry way. My name is Arthur Kirkland, and I am one of the world's most skilled assassins, known as England. My specialty? Throwing knives, daggers, and just about anything sharp. I am part of the world's most dangerous assassin group, the League of Nations. It was started several decades ago by the assassin known by the alias of Germania. It's leadership now resides with his grandson, Ludwig Beilschmidt, or Germany.

Today, on November 13th, at 8:45 pm, there is a meeting with about eighty percent of the members of the LON (League of Nations). This is a rather rare occurrence, and is naturally hosted in Berlin by Beilschmidt. Must be something of utmost importance, therefore it would be ridiculous for me to get sidetracked by something silly. Unless I had time to kill and thought to test the German police. I had found a lone office and decided to have some fun. I got ahold of a bottle of wine and let it spill down drip by drip just next to the officer from above. He panicked, thinking it to be blood, and shot. I led him on a little wild goose chase before finishing him off. How I managed to lay eyes on the most short-tempered and stupidest officer in Berlin is beyond me, but oh well.

So now I continue on my way to the building in which the meeting is hosted. I had to flash thmeme lady at the lobby my ID, so she would let "Oliver Holland" to the "private business meeting" on the 58th floor. Lady Luck seemed to be on my side, I managed to avoid the any awkward elevator rides and no one stepped in with me. Either that or my sadistic smirk traumatized the old man about to enter. No need to overthink such trivial matters. I entered the meeting room to be met with what can only be described as bordering on chaos.

One would think the world's most dangerous assassin organization would be, well, organized at the very least. But no, not in this case. Especially not when most of the members were involved. Which is probably another reason why the door was sound proofed. I spared a glance at the Rolex on my wrist. 8:43 pm. On time, then. Beilschmidt himself wasn't here either way. Probably because he likes to show up on the dot. Sometimes I wonder whether he waits for the clock to strike the specified timing and then opens the door. It seems a likely possibility in my opinion. I swept the room with my eyes, noting everyone present. 

Basch Zwingli, or Switzerland, was present, and was glaring at Kiku Honda, Japan, for something he did or said. My friends Lukas Bondevik and Vladimir Popescu, Norway and Romania, were also present and were conversing while Lukas casually strangled Matthias Hansen, Denmark with the Dane's tie. Antonio Fernandez, Spain, was ranting in rapid Spanish to just about anyone who would listen. Yao Wang, China, was lecturing Mei Xiao, Taiwan, and Li Xiao, Hong Kong, about God knows what. Elizabeta Herdevary, Hungary, was fingering her frying pan, and Tino Vainamoinen, Finland, was inching away from her subtly, closer to Berwald Oxenstirena, Sweden. I let out a light scoff at that. An outsider would see Vainamoinen and think him harmless with his timid behavior towards Herdevary. That is, until they see his chainsaw. Francis Bonnefoy, France, was looking for someone to flirt with judging by his expression, the bloody frog. Who I had to sit next to for some apparent reason.

Biting back a curse at the thought, I took my place, waiting for Beilschmidt to come and begin the meeting, unless he decides to wait for all the other members, which is unlikely if they come anytime later than five minutes after him. My phone vibrated in my pocket, so I took it out, glancing at the screen. I had a message from Alfred Jones, America, or as he was called on my phone, "Bloody Wanker". It read: "Yo, dude, is everyone there yet?" I do not know when he will speak proper English. Likely never. I hope for too much. I answered with a simple confirmation, not wanting to engage in further conversation with the wanker. I had to deal with the frog who was attempting to strike up a conversation with me anyway.

As soon as the clock struck 8:45 pm, Beilschmidt entered, followed by Feliciano Vargas, North Italy, shortly followed by Romano Vargas, South Italy. The Italy Brothers, as they were called, confused some by their codenames at the beginning, but by now no one questioned it. Moments later, Gilbert Beilschmidt, Germany's older brother, sauntered in, dragging Roderich Edelstein, Austria, behind him. Now, Gilbert Beilschmidt's codename is Prussia. He is the only one after Germania to use a dead country for their codename, but he had always claimed that he wasn't German, but Prussian. I have the sense not to ask. A couple of minute later, Ivan Braginsky, Russia, entered with his younger sister, Natalya, Belarus. The meeting was started by a yell from the German three minutes later, with three members not present yet. The group we labeled as The Nordics, I shouldn't have to explain who they are, seemed worried, and so was the frog. It was about seven minutes into the meeting when the doors burst open for our eyes to be greeted by the sight of America barging in, with Matthew Williams, Canada, his cousin, and Emil Steilsson, Iceland, and Lukas's adopted younger brother, trailing behind. 

Why the last two were late was beyond me, as for Jones, I wasn't in the least bit surprised. They were instantly attacked verbally by the German then the Nordics and the frog for what their reason was. Not paying attention to that and instead to the discarded files at the German's seat, I missed their reason, not like I cared. I could make out a name on the file. "The Order". Underneath those words was a blurry, black and white picture of a person wearing a blank, white mask. Extremely grateful for my perfect eyesight, I squinted to read what was written underneath. Apparently this person was running this "Order" and was a threat to the organization, as their goal was to take down the assassins, one by one, vigilante good-guy style. Not much personal information was written on this character, seemingly unknown. A shame. I lifted my eyes to be met with the harsh stare of steel blue eyes. I know a lot of people who would falter. I only cock a brow coolly, and feel the corners of lips tug into my signature smirk as I stared right back at Germany. Clearly, he didn't like my prying, but there wasn't much he could about it, and he knew it. Eventually his glare softened and he cleared his throat, beginning to talk about the matter at hand.

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So, it's my first Wattpad story! I hope y'all like it, comments are highly appreciated. And if anyone's confused, the nations are human, it's only their codenames that are the country names.