I need to stop watching 2P videos when I really need to be filling out requests for Nyotalia... Well anyway! This is just me trying to figure out what 2P theory works out for me! The first idea I have is pretty far off but I still think is logical at least to some extent. Okay, now on with the show!

America woke up on a cold wooden floor his head pounding. As he struggled to stand up, he saw a dark, mahogany door with a large circular emblem on it. The emblem was of a radioactive insignia with a silhouette of a bomb. Under it was a small silver plaque reading:

Mansion of the 2Ps:

Allan "America" Jones

America attempted to open the door only to find it locked. He turned to the other end of the room. Up against the far wall, was a glass display case holding a magically floating ensemble similar to America's. It consisted of a dark leather bomber jacket bearing the emblem on the door, a white t-shirt, black jeans, sunglasses, and beat up American flag converse. Resting at the foot of the case, nearly touching the toes of the converse, was a birch baseball bat with bandages wrapped too far up the handle, passing onto the part of the bat used for hitting balls, and nails sticking out it at very dangerous angles.

America picked up the baseball bat. Suddenly a sharp pain shot up his arm, flooding through his entire body like medicine through an IV. His eyes flashed a demonic shade of red and the bat hit the floor with a loud 'crack'.

"What the hell!" America screeched staring at the baseball bat with horror. He slid his jacket off and rolled up is sleeve to inspect his arm. His right arm had changed to a darker colour, the same shade of his Native's skin. The colour started to recede down to his finger tips disappearing as quickly as it came.

With a quite click the door opened. America spun around to stare at the intruder.

"You're not Allan yet." England stated. He was different though. His skin even lighter than before and freckles spanning from ear to ear across his nose. His hair was a light pink instead of the usual blonde, his eyes a mixture of light blue with a hint at baby pink. He wore a lavender sweater over a white button up shirt, a light blue bow tie (a colour similar to his eyes), and light tan pants.

"You! Where am I? And what the hell is wrong with that baseball bat?" America pressed, pulling his gun out of his pocket and pointing it at the pink haired man.

"Well, love, I'm the personification of England... The secondary personification that is. It'd do you well, dear, to call me Oliver!" the man answered. "And to where you are, I happen to be very knowledgable in that subject. You're in the mansion of the 2Ps, or second players, other colours, secondaries, and so on. Oh, and don't think about shooting me, this is still the body of your good friend England. That meanie locked all of us up in our clothing of choice a LONG time ago. He destroyed our old bodies but he couldn't find a way to destroy our souls. He didn't take into account that since our blood is almost exactly the same we could very easily take over your bodies."

"So your telling me that a version of me is trapped in that suit of clothes over there?" America asked, confused. "And why did England lock you up?"

Oliver nodded continuing. "Were evil, love. It's healed by now but back when I met your counter part, the silly Indian boy threw his axe at my forehead and successfully landed quite a painful hit. I myself was very well know back in the day for my skill at hiding poison in my delicious sweets and cupcakes. Your twin brother's counter part, known for his skill with his gun and quite dangerous hockey stick. And his father, Francois, had a nice reputation for putting out people's eyes with his cigarette bud. Nasty people we are, really. I see why he did it. But, still, we all deserve another chance at life."

"Wait you want me to sacrifice my body just for your little brother?" America argued.

"Oh, so you 1Ps are a bit unconventional when it comes to family relations! No, love, he's my son" Oliver replied. "And you won't be sacrificing yourself forever. The one weakness we have in this "just-souls-form" is that on the day of the full moon, you'll get your body back! The looks won't change back though, just the souls!"

"No! I don't believe you!" America shouted, shoving past Oliver and into the hallways. He ran down the hallway grabbing a random door knob and opening it. He slammed the door shut and looked around hurriedly. A Canadian flag hung on the wall over a red couch. Laying on the red couch was a sleeping Canada, oddly wearing a red mounted police uniform.

"Oh my god, Canadia, bro! You don't know how good it is to see a familiar face! England's either gone nuts or it's Halloween and he's playing a trick on me." America said rushed.

"So he didn't succeed, *groan* old man failed and let a 1P out of the 2P room." the Canadian mumbled.

"C-canada?" America stuttered.

"That's Samuel to you, bastard!" the blonde stood up and slammed the door shut. The emblem for this room was a circular cut of the Canadian flag except it had a pot leaf in place of the maple one. Samuel walked over to a cabinet , pulling out a Tupperware container with brownies in it.

"Want one?" Samuel asked smirking. "You seem a bit pale." America seemed hesitant. "Oh, they're not poisoned, look!" He opened the container and took a piece of brownie in his mouth, quickly swallowing it. America seemed to trust the Canadian. The dilation of Samuel's pupils went unnoticed by the American. He grabbed a cake quickly and stuffed it in his mouth, oddly hungry. The chocolate treat had an odd affect on him though. His head started to spin and the world became fuzzier and more distorted. He fell to the floor with a thump.

"Oh, I forgot to mention, I prefer my brownies as a clever way to consume pot, there's a reason for the leaf on the door! So what you just ate will probably send you on one hell of an acid trip, this being your first crack at it and all. I didn't think you'd be gutsy enough to eat an entire dose though." Samuel chuckled, poking America with the toe of his black boot.

"What in the world happened here?" Oliver asked shocked, swinging the door open. He stared slack-jawed at the blonde passed out on the floor. "What happened to America? You know you can't kill him!"

"He's not dead, just tripping. I bet if you were to drag him back right now and change his clothes before he wakes up you could finish the job without him even noticing." Canada suggested, shrugging and putting the Tupperware box back in the cabinet.

"Done!" Oliver shouted triumphantly.

"Like you actually did anything! You were too busy being embarrassed about stripping him to even help up until the jacket." Samuel spat back.

"It's improper for a gentleman to partake in that sort of thing." England argued.

"Stop talking, I think it's starting, the drugs must've slowed it down." Samuel snipped, kneeling down. Slowly, America's pale skin started to change to the Native American skin of Allen, his half-open eyes transitioning from sky blue to deep red. His hair, starting from the roots, changed to a deep red-purple-brown colour. Finally, as the last of him changed back, the dark-skinned nation's eyes shot open.

"Bucket." was the only word he said.

"Whoops!" Canada commented, grabbing a nearby trashcan and placing it on Allan's lap. The Indian heaved the contents of his stomach into the bucket.

"What the HELL did you guys give me!" he asked.

"The only way to disable your counter part was to give him... well..." Oliver started, hesitant.

"Spit it out old man, how bad could it be?" America spat.

"Samuel gave you some of his brownies." Oliver finished hurriedly.

"What the #$% Sammy! Why the #$% did you do that, bastard!" America yelled. His cheeks took on an odd shade of green and he heaved again. "Oh. My. God. Why does pot do this crap to you!" He trew up again.

"Don't worry, Al. Even I would throw up after the amount your body took in." Samuel comforted, handing Allan a glass of water.

"How much did he eat!" Allan questioned.

"Just the largest brownie in the box in a minimum of 5 seconds." Samuel replied dryly.

Allan puked again.

"Remind me to go tripping the night before the full moon." Allan growled.

"Sure thing, love." Oliver giggled, smirking. He placed America's outfit in the glass box, changing the small plaque at the bottom to:

1P Box

Alfred "America" Jones

"I should go drinking, England HATES hangovers. What are you going to do Samuel?" Oliver asked.

"Well, Canada's both English and French... I think getting high will suit me for now. Maybe later I'll figure out what would really grind his gears to wake up to but I guess the after effects of a night of weed will be a fair punishment. Plus, it'll be interesting to see you drunk. You've never had a drop of alcohol, ever." Samuel replied.

I might write a follow up to this with the trio doing exactly what they way and screwing over their counterparts for a free day of puking and having to avoid sunlight. That'll be interesting... Review and I'll write it!