Sweat dripped off his bowed forehead, leaving salty trails on the inside of his glasses. He tosses them to the side, having become too dirty to be of any assistance. He continues shuffling forward, trudging through the remains of his country. He stops, seeing a tattered bit of red, white and blue peeking out from the edge of a fire. It's in his sight for a mere moment before it's entirely engulfed in flames. He looks back down at his soot covered combat boots, wiping a gloved hand across his dirty, sweaty forehead. His dog tags rattle against his chest.
This is Alfred F. Jones, the human embodiment of what was once known as The United States of America.
The tragic city he wandered through was one of the biggest cities, one of the most iconic cities, of the world. These ruins were on the outskirts. Farther in the city lay the crumbling and flaming sky scrapers, the city that used to be the American Dream.
New York City.
It's the end of the war and for the first time since 1774 America has lost.
The war raged for ten years, Russia having finally completely snapped, reclaiming the countries that used to be Soviet, Alaska, and Canada, along with Greenland, Iceland, Sweden, Norway, and Finland, becoming the country that circles the earth, seeking world domination. But they couldn't win. They can't win.
A single shot rings out in the distance. Alfred looked up towards the bang, glancing at the ruins of his biggest city, and slowly walks towards the gunshot. He recognized the sound of the gun. He knew the type, the ammo, the very gun that made that sound.
He accepted his fate.
He could see the pale, long coat waving behind the figure, standing on top of what used to be the Empire State building. A dark kolkolkolkol drifted towards Alfred on the wind. With a flash of violet eyes, the figure turned towards the falling, once giant country. The soft, child-like face adopted a look of pure joy at the sight of Alfred, at the sight of who used to be America.
"Alfred," the man smiles in faux innocence.
He looks up, holding to the edges of his pride as an American. "Ivan."
"Become one with mother Russia, da?" Ivan tilts his head, asking the crumbling country.
Accepting the offer would be the smart thing. Then, America could rebuild. America could eventually break from Soviet control. This logic stuck in America's head. He could picture the once sparkling country he represented, the streets paved in gold, Hollywood, the Grand Cannon, the Mississippi, I95, all crumbled and in ruins because of this tyrant embodying Russia. All destroyed. Every McDonalds, Disney Land, New York City, every place of any meaning. There was no way in hell that America would give in after this far.
It's not the American way.
Clenching his gloved hands, Alfred raised his head, shouting, "Never!"
Ivan frowned slightly, "Wrong answer." The smile returned to his crazed lips as he swung his gun, pointing it at the blond, aimed straight at his chest. Alfred set his jaw, and looked up at Ivan, straight down the sight of the gun aimed at him.
I'm sorry. He silently prays to all those who helped him in his short life, to his brothers, to his friends. To England. To Canada. He closes his eyes, holding his arms out, fully accepting the impending thunder of the gunshot, the strike of the bullet. He accepts the pain, the end, of the country he once was.
Ivan walks away several minutes after the young country falls. This land is his now. A small smile of delight lights his face, his gun slung over his shoulder, as he replays watching the light of defiance and American pride leave Alfred's eyes.
Another job well done.