Austria scowled at the orange monstrosity.

Hungary used to say that scowling made him look petulant and childish, but what did he care? She wasn't there.

The orange thing glowered back, as only large, inanimate structures can; brutally dismissing his visible disapproval with its looming indifference.

Austria resented the looming. He was a Nation, dammit. No physical building had any business trying to intimidate him.

More to the point, it was ridiculous. It was orange. (Austria's inner pedant whispered that it was really more of a light tan, but he determinedly ignored the insubordination.)

And it was spherical. That was the source of the problem. What business did it have being such an impractical shape?

His citizen, its builder, planned to live in it, but that was surely ridiculous. The 'house' had no corners. How would he fit the furniture in? Where would the book cases go? And the walls were curved! Where would he hang his art – his paintings, decorations, photographs? How could one of his citizens make such a massive oversight? The heir to a proud heritage of music, art and literature!

The inner pedant was back, pointing out that as the whole house was supposed to be a work of art, it was hardly an issue. Austria stomped on it.

Truth be told, the house gave him a bad feeling. It was a creeping, itching feeling, like the beginning of new skin. It made him think of Hungary, just before the separation.

And as a pre-eminently rational, Thinking Nation, there had to be something visible he could blame.

It had to be the colour – or the shape. There was just something wrong about them, something a little off, artistic license be damned.

Satisfied with this verdict, Austria went home.

This turned out to be a mistake, as Austria discovered a few years later when he woke up gasping at a searing pain in his chest.

Even as he sweated and panted the pain was receding. This did not prevent him from flinging himself out of bed, ungainly as a teenager, and bolting from the room.

He did a circuit of the upstairs before pounded down the stairs and frantically searching the rest of the house, for once thankful its dimensions were less palatial than they once had been.

Everything seemed normal. Nothing was out of place. But he could still feel the tingle and a growing numbness over his heart that told him something was very wrong. It was like the loss of the Empire all over again.

He sobbed without meaning to and clutched the front of his silk sleeping shirt reflexively.

What had he lost this time?

Territory? Was someone infringing on his land again? Had he been invaded? Out of habit, his brain flicked accusingly to Germany.

Had something happened to the economy? Had there been another collapse? He had warned his bankers and venture capitalists!

Or… he felt himself pale. Had someone desecrated the State Opera House again?

There was only one thing to do. He needed to talk to his boss. And check the newspapers. Neither of which he could do in his pyjamas.

It was time to suit up.

As it turned out, though, his boss didn't know of any calamity, which was only a little reassuring. It meant something subtler and potentially more dangerous was going on.

Austria decided to visit the offices of the Kronen Zeitung instead. As his Nation's largest and most popular newspaper, they might know what was going on. Conveniently, their head office was in Vienna.

Even at this early hour, the offices were a hive of activity, and Austria felt a swell of pride for his hardworking citizens. The other Nations sometimes accused him of being obsessed with music to the exclusion of all else, but they failed to realise that he could appreciate art in all its many forms. Even journalism.

Nor did the good people of the Krone let him down.

"I did hear of something that might interest you," the third journalist he spoke to admitted. "There's this… house," her mouth twisted derisively.

Something began to nag at the back of Austria's memory.

"My cousin lives near it. He writes for the local paper there. It was a talking point for a while because it's round."

Austria's stomach sank.

"Well, it turns out, it had no planning permission. Its owner's a bit of a local crank, apparently. Eccentric artist, my cousin says." She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, he's gotten himself into trouble with the local council. They were threatening to pull it down, but now he's gone and declared it a separate country. I talked to my cousin last night. Says he's started calling himself its State President. Can you believe that?"

She was talking to herself however. Austria was already out of the door.

So now he was back. The orange abomination mocked him with its traitorous existence.

Its builder was nowhere to be seen, which was probably fortunate. Instead, Austria spotted a child, sitting in the structure's shadow, hugging her knees and watching him with detached interest.

Austria summoned a smile. He liked children and this one was unsupervised. All his other troubles aside, he was a Responsible Nation. He'd had lots of practice with Italy, after all.

"Where are your parents, child?" he asked kindly as he crouched next to her, careful not to crease his immaculately pressed trousers.

The child, more a youth really, raised her large purple eyes to meet his. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn't immediately place it.

"I have no need of a parent. I am independent," the youth intoned. Her voice was low and Austria took a moment to wonder whether his initial assessment of her gender was correct. A bigger part of his brain was starting to panic as a horrible theory took shape.

"No?"

"No." Her (or his) eyes were boring into him challengingly. It was time to test his theory.

"How old are you, child?"

She (he?) gazed contemplatively into the distance, as if considering a deep, philosophical question. Austria had a horrible feeling that wasn't far from the truth.

"I suppose you could say I was born yesterday. But who can say?" she said at last, confirming his worst fears.

"You're a Nation?" he choked out. He had known all along. He had just hoped it wasn't true.

How could this be happening? What had he done to deserve this?

As if reading his thoughts the strange girl stood up. She had long twin plaits falling to her waist and she flung one over her shoulder dramatically as she surveyed all before her, apparently forgetting his presence.

"Am I a Nation? Am I Art? All I know is that I am Free."

Austria rolled his eyes and pushed his glasses up his nose. He was on surer ground now.

"If you were a Nation, you would have a population."

She glanced over at him disdainfully and sniffed.

"He has gone to the Market."

Austria stared at her. "He? You can't have a population of one!"

"So says the Oppressor!" Heat was starting to creep into her monotone. "Art is not bound by such preconceived notions! My population is an Artist and I am his Art. What is a Nation, after all?"

Not this! Austria almost blurted out, but stopped himself just in time. He was a Thinking Nation, after all, and she raised a sound philosophical point. Time for a safer question.

"What do you call yourself?"

She (he?) gazed into the distance as if into a distant future. The sun caught her (his?) pale blonde hair and cast her eyes into shadow.

"I am the Glorious Nation of Kugelmugel."