He is dying.
He is dying in that way countries do. He isn't healing. Cameras watch his every move and a telescreen is always on. Men sit around a table and give him angry looks. It's clear what they're thinking. It's clear he's not supposed to be here.
A surly young boy is out on the street. People don't give him a second look, assume he's a prole, but he can tell. He knows.
A plane lands outside two young men who are also dying joins the assembly of Oceania's leaders.
"Britain, dude! Hey!"
"Hullo, America."
"Hi, Britain."
"Hullo, Canada."
They all sit down.
"So," America says. "I'm just walking down this street right, and some douche starts lecturing me about sex and it is so weird, and Japan was there too. And then Japan got like, arrested, and we had to get all jailbreak on their asses and then Japan got tortured and I almost got tortured to but instead we got the hell out of there and now I'm kinda concerned for his mental health."
Canada and Britain both give him looks telling him to shut up.
"Man," he rambles on. "What is this food? It tastes like crap. Hey, beer! Ew." It takes him awhile to simmer down.
"You're the embodiment of... America?" one of the other men at the tables asks.
"Yeah, dude-bro, and this is Canada, say hi, man."
Canada, looking terrified, says hi.
Britain stares at his cup of Victory Coffee and wonders how long it will be until they decide to kill America. They're already starting to look at him like a fly they need to swat. The same way they looked at those three men they did away with earlier. Canada will be alright, because he doesn't speak and looks terrified. That's how they like their people to be. And that's what they are now. People. America doesn't realize what this is, and Britain isn't sure if Canada does. It's a test. They're letting him babble to see if he's worth keeping around.
He swirls his coffee around in his mug and has a sip. America downs another bottle of Victory Gin and Britain can't help but flinch. He's going to get drunk off his ass and die.
"So you're like, totalitarian, right? Communists or not? Like Russia? Bet you could give China some tips, huh?"
He's done it now. They could have let Japan slide, but he's kept talking about countries that don't exist, and they're going to make him pay.
"With all due respect," one of the men at the table says. "Why are you here?"
"Because you invited me, man. This drink is super hard."
"That's not what I meant. You aren't a country anymore. So why do you exist?"
America looks taken aback. Canada takes up a fascination with the floor and America turns to look at Britain, his expression a mix of Boy, can you believe this guy? and Holy fuck, what do I do?
He offers no help. Canada stammers out something about immortality and the past and Britain's stomach sinks through his chair.
The past. History. Now they've done it.
"But the thing is," the man says. "You can check any records. Canada and America aren't and never were never countries."
They blink.
"Oh," says Canada. America isn't so easily swayed.
"Except we were. You can't change all the history you want but I existed and I still exist, and I know I exist. Sorry, pal."
Oh no. Britain's hands dig into his knees. Oh no.
The men at the table look at each other and Britain has a feeling their plane is going to have an accident on the flight over the ocean. He wonders if Canada will make it out. He could be reformed by the Thought Police quite easily.
On shaking legs he rises to show them out, muttering farewells to the council. Once they're out of the door, America blurts out something idiotic. Britain isn't listening. They head out to the airstrip.
"Dude," America says. "Revolution. Am I right?"
"You're not."
"Dude! You're still bitchy about the 1700s is all. I think we can take him, with the proles, maybe call in the Allies and get the gang back together, even the Axis-"
"Listen for a minute, you idiot. This isn't a small country for you to overpower and outmaneuver. This isn't me. They're already probably going to try and execute you, so if you do miraculously manage to make it home alive, they'll just kill you there instead. They're going to watch-"
"Naw man, be government doesn't watch people, they just want you to think that."
"-And stop talking about the others, it'll get out arrested. Who controls the past controls the future, who controls the present controls the past."
"Uh, what?"
Canada nods with understanding. Britain grabs America's arm. "If you die, they'll hurt him. Keep that in mind."
"Oh. Kay. Wow, you're paranoid. Well, see you around!"
Britain curses himself as the plane flies away.
In Paris's leftovers, he reclines in his chair with his legs tossed, reading a newspaper and tapping his foot against air. There are loud noises outside and a few screams. He turns the page.
"Can you believe this? They're saying Russia jumped out of a plane." His memory supplies a voice to answer him and once again he forgets his people are screaming. "What do you think, Joan? Quite right." He pretends a date in the corner says a number ending in 42 or something far back, and doesn't even realize he's pretending. "What's that? No, I disagree. I disagree, Britain, stop arguing. You'll get Joan upset."
The newspaper really is full of lies about wars and the economy and prisoners from the unclaimed lands of what was once Africa. France is not aware of this.
"Look, now you're ruining your embroidery."
There's a knock on the door. "Is that you, mon ami? Come in."
The door bursts open and a man who appears to be of Slavik origin bursts in.
"Spain, good to have you! It a been ages! Sit down." France puts the paper away to beam at him and the man looks confused. "Britain, where are your manners? Say hello! You too, Joan."
"Who're you?"
"I'm... France? Don't be stupid, Spain."
"I'm not- uh- listen, someone told me there was a criminal hiding in here-"
"They're come for you, Britain!" France laughs. "Oh, darling, I'm just kidding. Come over here. Fine, stay."
"Who's Britain?"
France gives Spain a confused smile, not sure how to answer his absurd question, and the Slavik man backs out of the building slowly. How odd. Even for Spain.
"Tell Romano hello!" He unfolds the paper and reads it again, taking in words that aren't there. "Look at this, Joan! Russia leapt from a plane!"
Russia is very mad. He smiles at the man in front of him and tries again.
"My sister," he repeats. "Wide in the chest? Suspenders? Yes?"
The man levels his gun at Russia's head. Lithuania pulls at his sleeve.
"I think maybe we should just-"
"Remove your hand, please. I am not wanting to repeat myself, sir. I am looking for my sister. I am not an idiot. I know you have her."
"Your sister doesn't exist."
He blinks. "But the thing is, she does. Right, Estonia?"
"Er, right?"
"See, we have two against one. There are four of us and one of you. Bring me my sister now and we'll go away."
"Funny you bring those numbers up. I have five bullets in here."
Russia blinks again. "Lithuania, you go get Poland now, right?"
"Oh, right."
"And you two get Belarus, right?"
"Right."
Russia and the man stare at each other.
"I am not wanting to repeat myself again," he says. "Get me my sister now."
"She doesn't-"
"If you have touched her you die, yes? If you lay one finger on anyone that is-"
The man empties his gun into Russia's forehead and continues on with his patrol.
"Mister Russia!" Latvia whirls around and rushes over. At the sound of his cry, Lithuania turns. He and Estonia rush to join him. "He's dead. He's dead. He's dead he's dead-"
"But we can't die!" Estonia panics. "I don't get it! We can't die!"
"We can now."
Entranced, Latvia touches his scarf. It has turned red in the bloody snow. "But... What do we do now? He protected us. He..."
"He's dead is what he is. Take it, if you want, but we have to go. Lith, go find Poland. Latvia, you meet Belarus at the boat."
"But Ukraine-"
"We can't get Ukraine, okay?"
"Okay."
Lithuana rises and runs off into the city, and Latvia races away, the scarf gliding after him in the wind. Estonia closes Russia's eyes, and follows after him.
Belarus isn't at the boat. Lithuania does not return. Latvia and Estonia do what Russia told them to in this sort situation and, like he said to, they get the hell out.
The murder of a child is the worst kind.
Switzerland is screaming, and he is on the offense. She is screaming too, but it's an echo.
"You killed her!" He shrieks, firing shot after shot at the men around him. "She didn't do anything! You killed her! You killed her!"
"Sir, you need to calm down. You're causing a-"
"I'll kill you!" he promises, and starts firing again. All of his bullets are gone, but he keeps tugging at the trigger unknowingly. Any desire for peace of neutrality has vanished with her. "You took her away! What gave you the right! What gave you the-"
Someone hits him, from behind, no less. He shouts and spins to hit them back. "She was my sister! How could you! You bastards! Die! Die!"
"You may disperse," someone says. Switzerland screams to the sky and keeps firing his empty gun until he realizes someone is saying his name. He looks up helplessly. It's Austria. His hand is on his shoulder. They lock eyes.
"You got beat up pretty bad. Where's Lichen- oh."
There is silence and Switzerland sags.
"... What happened?"
"I don't know. I don't know. One minute she was talking and then they killed her they killed her they-"
"I know. Come on, let's go get you cleaned up before those police come back. Here." Austria kneels down and pulls something out of the blood. He hands a ribbon to him. "Now you have her with you. Let's go back to my place. Hungary can..."
Switzerland's ears stop working and the only thing in the world is the ribbon. He clenches his fist.
And that is when he finally weeps.