Alfred F. A. Jones was a soldier.
He had been a soldier his entire life, really. His body had been that of a teenager when he first screamed and swallowed a bullet near the Great Meadows with George, but he'd shot up nearly foot by that day ten years later when he had limped through the shit, piss and blood in Quebec, grabbed his twin by the hair and bit at Matt's wrists.
There was a sort of adrenaline in war that Alfred had become guiltily addicted to. He hadn't quite imeant/i to burn York that badly, but when his twin came back at him with all the fury of a northern storm, Alfred hadn't regretted a thing for years. When his elder brother held him at gunpoint on a rainy battlefield, there was a little part of him that hoped Arthur would remember Alfred was iimmortal/i and there were other ways to win—
But England did not relish conflict anymore. Not without his ipreferred/i blue-eyed enemy from across the channel.
Now, Arthur E. Kirkland merely lived with the proles, visited every few years— if it had indeed been years— by big brutes of redheads he seemed intimately familiar with. He passed the days in between by knitting warm clothes, reading the despicable yet still adequately trashy novels from the Ministry of Truth, and telling much more interesting stories to the children who frequented his unnaturally clean yard.
He was a quiet, homely man whose cooking was no better or worse from ingredients.
Aside from the odds and ends that seemed to breeze though his apartments, Arthur E. Kirkland did not usually receive guests, and similarly, soldiers in Oceania did not usually go on leave to ibe/i guests. Usually, they were posted and stayed posted and that was the end of that. Soldiers weren't seen often in Airstrip 1 because there was just simply no need for that.
But Alfred F. A. Jones was getting tired of his current assignment. He'd slipped out of the base back in Cameroon with his lobster-red burnt skin, stolen fuel by the barrel and hijacked a helicopter he'd nicknamed Snow White (it didn't have a real name, not even the airplanes had names anymore; they were merely letters and numbers now) and painted a naked woman on the side, just like they used to. It was one of the many things he missed about the old wars: The downtime between battles, when soldiers were bored and the first two things on their minds were their machinery and women. Alfred remembered boiling water for coffee and tea by shooting off machine guns and filling airplanes' cargo holds with ice, sugar, cream, egg yolk, and vanilla, then doing barrel rolls to mix it all up fast. Back when soldiers would paint anything that sat still long enough, real paint or no real paint.
Alfred hadn't eaten ice cream or sipped real good coffee in years. There was nothing he could do about that. He could still paint on his machines, though.
He wished he had an airplane. He liked them better than helicopters. He could have painted a shark's mouth on an airplane, and used less fuel in an airplane. Spent fewer weeks uncomfortable steering North and dodging anti-aircraft in an airplane. But helicopters could dodge those anti-aircraft easier and were easier to land on a dime if he had to. He decided he would steal an airplane the next time around though, after asking Arthur which building it would be alright to crash it into.
For the moment, he merely swept over the slums of Airstrip 1 and sighed about having ever mentioned that stupid unsinkable aircraft carrier joke around Oceania. He twisted the flight stick around sharply, sending the helicopter buzzing over buildings in a reckless turn before he bailed out of the side door, leaving the chopper to fly about in an uncontrolled frenzy, and for the briefest moment, the entire world went mad.
Alfred hit the ground with enough force to break at least half the bones in a human body. Ten minutes later, he limped down the street with bloody arms and a bent face and still no regrets.
He no longer healed as quickly as he used to, but he still healed, and for that he was thankful. It made arriving at Arthur's house much more interesting sometimes.
The buildings of the proles' slums were the remains of buildings that survived the Blitz, for the most part, and were still standing despite the still continuous rain of bombs. People were stacked upon each other in a way that reminded Alfred of what had once been New York before the turn of the century. They both smelled about the same. Rain dulled the stench here.
Arthur lived on the third floor of a tenant house with broken windows on all the levels and an uninhabitable wreck of a fourth floor filled with mold and rats. The roof had open patches which caused water damage on the ceiling of Arthur's room. Half the apartments were empty, and Arthur had become rather fond of allowing the black marketers and smugglers places to rest in them.
Arthur had been sent to the labor camps a grand total of four times, been given early release thrice, and simply walking out the fourth.
It was all in who you knew.
Alfred and Arthur happened to know each other very well. So well, that Alfred didn't even bother to use the door, which was a rickety old thing that squealed so loudly when it opened that it hurt his ears and would echo through the entire house, announcing to everyone inside that the door had been opened. So instead of opening the door, Alfred helped himself to a broken window on the ground floor, slipping through it only a little clumsily despite his still healing injuries. His blood was already drying, and didn't stain the floor.
The staircase, like the door, would creak loudly no matter how lightly one stepped on it. The third step in particular made one think it might break if too much weight was put on it. Alfred opted to use the old dumbwaiter instead, which was in impeccable condition for something so ancient. It slid him up to the third floor without a sound, and was large enough he wasn't even entirely uncomfortable the whole way. It was only getting out gracefully he had difficulty with, though he managed.
Stumbling into the third floor, he passed through the halls until he came to the room in the corner of the buildings, with two windows on two walls, and the one on the left overlooking the Thames.
Alfred found Arthur looking out the left-facing window over the Thames, sipping hellish gin and lounging in what had likely once been a plush arm chair, but was now merely a stained, moderately comfortable cushioned chair with half the feathers sticking out.
"Hey, what's goin' on?" Alfred said, closing the door behind him.
"It's 'Hello,' not 'hey'," Arthur said, hardly glancing over. "There are no horses here."
Alfred laughed, though it wasn't particularly funny. Arthur was funny looking in Alfred's opinion, but his jokes often didn't follow suit.
Arthur was a gangly man with deathly pale skin, unruly sandy hair and untrimmed eyebrows. His face had recently become much more angular, compared to the smooth face Alfred recalled from his younger years. Arthur's eyes were the only striking part of him, seeming to glow a fierce and toxic green, but they only seemed potent until you'd met a certain one of his elder brothers, or his niece, whose eyes made Arthur's seem rather dull in comparison.
As they years had crawled on, both their appearances had changed. Alfred had nearly half the natural strength he once did, his tanned skin was covered in splotches, old scars and bumps. He could hardly be called the beautiful man he once was, but his mottled skin still stretched over a definite layer of muscle. His hair was a cropped dirty blond, and the glasses' metal frames were slightly crooked, as his nose was. His eyes were blue. Just blue.
"You look like hell."
Alfred grinned a wide and broken smile. He'd swallowed several teeth quite recently, and his accent had fallen into a bit of a lisp. "Yeah.. D'you have a towel you don't want anymore?"
"Back drawer. There's a bucket of water beside it."
Alfred made a little 'hmph' of thanks and wiped the blood off his face, arms and jacket with the raggedy cloth he'd found in the drawer. It was useless afterwards. Arthur would burn it once it dried.
"Did you really have to do that to the helicopter?" Arthur said. "It nearly killed two proles."
Alfred hunkered down beside Arthur's chair and flashed the broken grin up at him. "I still can't believe you can count them that close."
"I used to have many more people to keep track of," Arthur said. His face was remarkably straight as he stared flatly out the window.
"You weren't very good at it sometimes."
They both snorted.
"But really," Alfred said, "It's good to see you. Have things been goin' okay?"
Arthur's face softened as he turned to look at Alfred. His eyebrows drooped and his lips weren't pressed together as tightly. "It's no worse than usual," he said.
Alfred reached over and took the bony hand that rested on the arm of the chair. "Have you heard from anyone else?"
Arthur shook his head. "No one has the balls to invade anyone. Fucking cowards, the lot of them."
"They're probably in the same situation we are."
"The hell they are. At least ione/i of them must've adopted an army. Prussia, at least— or Hungary, considering her ancestry. Francis, even, he loved—iloves/i conquering."
"They might be dead," Alfred said.
Arthur turned on Alfred, ragged mess of hair on end and his acidic eyes narrowed dangerously.
"We're iEurope,/i" he hissed. "We have survived centuries of Roman conquest, civil wars, crusades, plagues, genocide, economic collapses, two world wars and a massive nuclear assault. War and victory run in our veins. Are you saying you think Eurasia and Eastasia— mere ichildren/i— could kill any one of us?"
Alfred said nothing.
He remembered South and Central America. His brother Alejandro's body, eyes bulging, body twisted and broken on the heat-baked rocks, covered with blood and monarchs that no longer migrate across their lands in great swarms. He remembered his states, all mostly children.
"I'm sure the rest of Europe is fine," Alfred said, trying to not taste the bitter lie as it left his mouth. "but you should still prepare for the worst case scenario, just in case."
"Bullocks," Arthur said. "We persevere."
"I know." Alfred said. A minute or two passed in silence. "I'm sure Francis is still alive."
"Of course he is," Arthur said. "Do you not know how hard it is to kill him? I went at it for a hundred years at once one time and still couldn't do it. And then he practically went suicidal himself and iWinter/i couldn't do it. Then, once we actually had him tied down at our mercy, he istill/i squirmed his way out by abandoning Napoleon—"
"—but not really—" Alfred felt the need to add.
"—well, yes, but we didn't know that at the time. But then he's istill/i alive so what happens? You fight in a trench on him. He's still back twenty years later in a resistance after getting his arse handed to him on a silver platter iagain/i," Arthur let out an incredibly frustrated groan. "After all this shite, if anyone but me kills him, I'll be— I'll just— ifuck anyone/i who even tries!"
Alfred held the bony hand tighter. "I'm sure he feels exactly the same way."
"He had better," Arthur said through clenched teeth.
Alfred held Arthur's hand for several more moments until the older man's shoulders slumped down and the bloodlust drained out of him once more.
The proles were merely writhing masses of emotion and tension, being pulled taut with patriotism and tension being released steadily with bread and circuses. They had no drive for revolution, most were too busy focusing on what stood in front of them. No matter how upset Arthur would get, he would always return to that as well: the window in front of him, overlooking the Thames and the mulling, churning, ragged people in the streets below.
Alfred looked over them along with Arthur for several long moments. The Thames continued to flow slowly. Children jumped off the streets above naked to dive in and swim in the putrid, polluted water.
"It looks like Rome," Arthur said quietly.
"I always imagined Rome to look prettier," Alfred said.
"Not before he fell. They all thought they were safe. And then there was disease, and suddenly the huns came and Germania was forced into his territory and they got into fights. Well, Germania fought. Rome didn't do much, really. But no one gave a fuck before it happened, and this is what not giving a fuck looks like. It's got to happen eventually."
Alfred hummed. "I think we need a revolution."
"No shite."
Alfred laughed.
"It's just a matter of time before there's a spark. Just wait."
Arthur snorted. "I've been waiting. I'm sick of it."
"Just wait."
Alfred didn't stay for very much longer. The Party was likely tracking him by then, what with the missing helicopter showing up with proles.
Arthur likewise downed the rest of his gin with a grimace, said "Fucking disgusting," picked up the filthy towel and pulled on a coat to make a quick dash to his neighbor, who like many proles, had no telescreen, but could get better ingredients for a cuppa than most.
Alfred made his way in the opposite direction, whistling as though he hadn't a care in the world. Though the proles weren't his people, they hid him seamlessly in their crowds and spoke with him as though he were one of them. It was the advantage of stealthiness being attached to your name. He had no idea why Matthew, his last remaining brother, had complained about fading into the background so much when doing it on command was so useful.
As Alfred strode through the streets closer to the Outer Party area, he heard a chanting and screaming rise in the air. The Two Minute Hate had begun.
He strolled through the streets without any fear. After all, the image they put on the telescreen was wrong. Even if it weren't, it would have been difficult to hate any of the real images. Alfred had made sure he was smiling and sweet in every image since the camera was invented, and even if they did swap the pictures, his face had been disfigured from years of hate. Multitudes of silent conviction of belief could keep him alive forever.
Even if they did capture him, there was only so much they could do to hold him. Only so much humans could think to do to their nations— and the followers of the brotherhood were a silent, scattered nation indeed.
Goldstein lived.
And when the proles needed him, he would be there.
000
Haha. Oh man, guys. Crossovers. I'll get to writing the ScotFran again really soon, but it's the end of the school year and I just really wanted to do something easy D:
I actually like 1984, though I can't imagine how a society like that will survive for another century. I also looked through the crossovers with it and Hetalia and found I was very disappointed in most of them. Too many words and vague ideas being thrown around for my taste, so I decided to try and make my own.
So yeah. Just in case people wanted more clarification
England – the peroles
Al – resistance
Matt – the actual army (no one can tell Al and Matt apart, right? So they never know if it's Matt, who's loyal to the army, or if it's Al, who sneaks in to fuck shit up like a rebel. )
Notes
There is one rule in the army. That rule is, "if it sits still long enough, paint it."
Apparently, in WWI and WWII, the Americans would use their airplanes to mix icecream. The Brits would use their machine guns to boil water for tea. Innovation!
The name for Airstrip 1 (aka – Great Britain, but it's unclear about Ireland) is supposedly taken from a joke the US made during WWII about Britain being an unsinkable aircraft carrier, because it wouldn't fall to Germany and was used as the Allied base of operations. Hence, Airstrip 1.
France just doesn't fucking die. Just assume France will never die. Ever. It's just. He's like Russia. Shit happens and he's still alive, somehow.
000
Thanks for reading! (especially if you're one of the wonderful people who really reads my notes) If you've got a moment, drop a review and say 'hi'. I reply slowly, but I love talking to people.