Hey guys!
So, I dunno if people on here know about it, but there's been a kind of "war" going on amidst Hetalia fans on tumblr—not really a fandom war, per se, but like-people are assigning different characters to different "teams" and having them "fight" each other in a kinda AU setting. I think the main ones right now are the Pirates, the Vikings, the Space Cowboys and the Ninjas...I'm bad at explaining this(check tumblr if this is confusing, lol.) The point is, people are doing some awesome fanart and fiction and I thought I'd contribute...to Team Space Cowboy, of course. :)
This is my first time doing something gen and not pairing-related in a long time, and my first time writing sci-fi in forever. Hope it's not too bad...
Alfred remembers the deserts from when he was younger-exploring Anza Borrego in his free time, taking out his old weary Plymouth to gather a break from politics and international affairs, to simply hike up the dusty white and golden mountains to the summit, where he would sit and just inhale the thinner yet somehow sweeter oxygen, the dusty warmth swirling in his lungs.
He raises a hand to daub at the sweat collecting on his brow, forgetting about the hard protective visor that his knuckles knock against. He gasps at the sudden sting and takes in a breath of stale, re-circulated air. He stares at his hand for a moment, before lowering it to clutch back at the swinging reins.
Never again—Alfred thinks bitterly-never again would he experience that peace and warmth, that meditative wonder of just existing in a natural world that always seemed at a calm, in a bubble away from the chaos of modern life.
But now the quiet of the desert had become just another part of a battlefield. And the so-called "modern world" had regressed into a free for all with nations who once called diplomacy now shouting for blood.
Alfred gallops over the now anoxic wasteland, gloved hands gripping tightly on to the leathery reins, heels digging into his horse's plated sides, spurring him forward—harder, faster.
The next refueling camp-one manned by Aussie and his brother, Alfred's brothers- is still miles away and Alfred fears that he won't make it before his and his horse's labored breaths suck all the remaining oxygen out of the depleted tank strapped to his back. Even now his heated breath fogs up his helmet, obscuring the vision of the purpling horizon still too far off into the distance.
The desert is not the same as it was before—and it will never be the same again—but it's still nice, compared to the surrounding areas, especially those that Alfred had once seen lush with life. Alfred has not seen much of the rest of his former country, but the image of the chaparral framing the old state park burns angry and fearful into his memory. Further towards the coast near the foothills one could see them: the skeletons of ancient manzanitas, gnarled and whitened and oxygen starved like great hands twisted and clutching at the patch of atmosphere that had long forsaken them.
They were why Alfred prefers the wide open desert—already long adapted to harsher conditions and able to retain a smidgen of its former natural glory. But even with the beauty of the painted iron-rich hills and mountains, the tell tale signs of life in the desert are gone. Gone are the trickle streams and salty hot springs that Alfred used to bathe the grime from his body. The rabbits and tiny desert mice that he would find and coo at in the underbrush now had their bones baking in the hot sun, useful to no one, least of all the long dead carrion birds.
And despite the sadness of the evident mass extinction around him, Alfred rides onwards, leather chaps slapping against his saddle, over the uneven ground and petrified remains of endemic shrubs.
He inhales deep and low and wishes that he could breath the air outside of his glass bubble, even though it would certainly strangle him in mere moments. The reminiscence of his lungs expanding with rich, full air is painful, but it's all that can distract him from the ache of the mile long journey.
It's only on rides like this that Alfred truly gets the chance to reflect anyway—on the occasions when he's not forced to be on his toes, to be wary of attack from the seas, from the skies, from the shadows.
He grits his teeth against the thought of them—the people who he had once been pleased to call friends—residing there, hiding themselves from him, from each other.
They've been factionalized, and not just along the lines of pretty and arbitrary alliances over resources or ideology, like in the familiar past. The separation now runs into something deeper—something more primeval, more entrenched into the tight coils of the genetic code of their history. After the event—and Alfred took solace in knowing that it had not been entirely his fault—they had each took up those ingrained identities from oh so long ago, the mantles they had assumed in order to survive in a rugged world of kill or be killed.
These identities had once given them freedom and now did so again—but it is a different kind of freedom for a different kind of world, one that cuts a nation loose and gives them nothing—no people, no government, no culture and no legacy to hold on to. And so they all fall back, back down into the strength and security of their past archetypes.
They are no longer who they used to be—and thus have had to take up the new roles, lest they become lost in the red-dusted deadened world.
Alfred hadn't lost his faith yet—how could he, he was America for God's sake—but it had been whittled down into a breakable unshakeable toothpick strand. It had been chipped away every time the joint of his shoulder was destroyed by a projectile from the darkness, every time a wooden shanty town set up by Alfred and his allies was razed to the ground, every time Ivan slammed him to the wall and shouted in a thick choking voice to "grow up," every time he'd been left standing half dead on the deck of a mechanized ship with a sword pointed at his tattered chest and a pair of sea green eyes narrowed at him, at the enemy.
He knows now that the game has been changed—they all know now. It's another page in the course of history, nothing new to them. The game has changed and changes hands before: when Rome collapsed, when England industrialized, when Europe found itself entrenched in the muds of France, when Ford rolled out his assembly line, when those nations long subjected shouted out and broke away, when he himself created the bomb and introduced it's horror to the world and forever altered the pockmarked face of warfare—
His horse suddenly stumbles over a clawed out piece of ground and Alfred lurches out of his thoughts and slips forward on his seat. Alfred struggles to get himself up right but something else seems to be frightening his steed as he can feel the halting shies and muffled whinnies from beneath the horse's oxygen mask.
Alfred strokes the part of the horses mane visible from beneath the protective plating, trying to calm the mount even though his own nerves are rising at the beast's distress. Cautiously, he brings the horse to a complete halt, glancing furtively over his shoulder, searching the shadows of the skeleton shrubs, the bumbling gait of the tumbleweeds—the horizon, looking perfectly clear, except-
Alfred freezes, fists clenching tightly on the reins. There's an anomaly on the horizon, a long tall shadow standing between—or behind—the crests of mountain far ahead of him. Despite fear at what he might see, he squints his eyes and focuses, mouth predictably drying at the realization.
It's a mast.
A motherfucking mast, just barely visible as it pokes out from between the trench of two peaks of the distant mountain range. Alfred doesn't even need to be closer to see the pinprick of a flag flapping to know who it must be. Because he knows you don't just see any fucking mast pop out in the middle of the desert.
Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit—
His fingers find the pistal belted around his waist although he knows it'll be useless against the massive frigate now breaching the row of mountains—should its bulbous crow's nest and sharp Spanish eyes spot him.
Fuck!
Alfred wrestles the pistol from his holster, grimacing as he tries to keep a hold on his steed and keep an eye on the burgeoning ship in the all too close distance. He can almost hear a sharp British tongue commanding attention, can almost feel quick brown hands grip the barrel of a rifle and load in a bullet with his name on it—
Alfred tips his dusty, wide-brimmed hat out of his eyes, taking in the sight of the large, broad ship floating massive in the sky above the mountain range, raggedly eclipsing the red setting sun.
Shoulda never let those fuckers steal our propulsion system.
Hope you liked it! Read and review, please. :)