When Amelia F. Jones, the personification of the awesome nation of America, first wakes up that morning, she doesn't expect that day to be very exciting. At least not beyond the fact that it's her and what day isn't special when experienced by America?
But beyond that little fact, she is quite certain the most of the activities lined up sound quite ordinary. She has an early meeting with her boss to discuss the job situation and how to deal with it in the face of the now steadily returning soldiers.
She has a brunch with some of her military men to discuss her possibly speaking to some of her new recruits and perhaps enlightening them on some of the methods of war which only she has experienced first-hand. Of course, none but the highest in her government know where she's gotten her expertise, but perhaps just the fact that the recruits are meeting her face to face, knowingly or not, will impart higher spirits and more patriotic thoughts.
She'll work on paperwork and of course read over some new bills. It's monotonous, but necessary for her people and despite the hand cramps she's always willing to do it.
America will meet her brother Canada for lunch. And then after a few meetings with his Canadian officials, she'll spend the rest of the day with him. She loves hanging with her twin after all. And hopefully, she can negotiate (read: beg until she's blue in the face) him making her some of his pancakes. He swears he doesn't put crack in those beautiful golden fluffy cakes, but Amelia has to believe that they get their addictiveness from something he's putting in them.
Plus, Canada is pretty close with Netherlands and he just recently came back from Amsterdam not too long ago. Of course, whenever she mentions this, Canada always brings up how he could stop making her his special brownies.
That always shuts her up.
All in all, America's day is good, but not too eventful. She arrives home late and after saying goodnight to Whaley and giving him extra fish (he's still missing Tony who's gone on a trip to Pluto) she changes into her pajamas and without further ado hops into her bed.
She knows she's supposed to call Russia about him coming over tomorrow, but she's tired and feeling lazy at the moment. She decides as her eyes begin to droop closed that she'll see her boyfriend tomorrow anyway and she'll be sure to pull out his favorite vodka and to wear the little scarf that he'd given her with sunflowers at the bottom.
After all she's certain that he won't be able to not forgive his little podsolnechik.
America's well deserved sleep is not as peaceful as she'd desired. Rather than sweet dreams and restful nothingness, she's reliving some of her worst nightmares.
Two lines of soldiers face off. Their navy blue and dusky grey uniforms contrast as they rush forward. Amelia stands between the advancing lines, hands held up and voice straining to make her pleas for peace heard.
Their weapons clash and she falls to her knees as more American blood than she can fathom is shed at Antietam.
America is but a small, weak body unable to decide for herself what it is she wants.
She can't fight the enemy because no matter how much she lashes out, it is impossible to hit a body which only exists in the confines of one's own minds.
America fights herself until she is too tired too exhausted too move.
Not a living soul resides on these disgusting, blood drenched, carrion filled grounds besides America and she feels every loss as another bit of herself dwindling away.
It leaves her more unhinged than she'd begun.
America's eyes finally open, releasing her from the unwanted blast to the past as her covers become too restricting too heavy to claustrophobic.
America feels like she is drowning in them, so she tries to lift them from her head.
And she tries and she tries and tries and ….
'Fuck! Why is this so hard?'
America struggles and fights and she realizes soon as her sleepiness wears off that this is confusing.
Why is it impossible to fight off her covers? It's such a simple task.
More lucid than before, America finally realizes that it feels like she's drowning because she is. America can't find where her comforter ends. Its heaviness isn't equivalent to just a down comforter but that of a couple inches of heavy snow fall.
America finally crawls her way out from beneath her suddenly massive covers. As her sky blue eyes finally take in her bed which looks a million miles wide, she screams.
America is certain of only one thing; while this is most certainly a night mare, she isn't dreaming. No this isnot cannot be a product of her imagination.
Russia is most assuredly tired that night as he sleeps in his hotel suite. He's been running around working tirelessly with his officials and trying his damnedest not to terrify the living shit out of those meeting with him.
It's always a concern that countries might intimidate the humans with whom they meet, and rightly so. After all there is something quite unsettling at times about individuals who are almost virtual demi-gods. Almost impossible to kill, able to outlast humans with little effort and just as old as if not older than much of their recorded history.
These individuals for all their quirkiness and apparent harmlessness were a threat in their own right.
And this was true for none more so than Russia, whose reputation precedes him quite often and quite loudly.
Throughout the meetings in various offices, Russia found it a trend that his temps and secretaries and even politicians seemed to fall shy around him.
One poor secretary even fainted. The official reason was that she had low blood sugar and perhaps she was in need of a meal. Unofficially, the reason was that the tall, pale diplomat with the amethyst eyes and soul chilling aura had glanced on and off at the unlucky Svetlana throughout the meeting and the stress had finally been too much.
Ivan begged to differ, despite what others may have thought. He actually felt much less ill towards those around him than in the past.
As for Svetlana, Ivan hadn't even realized the distress he was causing the young woman. Rather, in his mind he's seen not a Russian woman, but an American one. One with short, golden strands of hair like her so called amber waves of grain and bright blue eyes that rivaled the clearest of sunny skies.
His mind was not in the stuffy room of business, but in a field of sunflowers with Amelia.
As Russia lays in his bed within his suite, he dreams of his sweet Amelia, sunflowers and even the heavens above (It's one of the reasons he and Amelia connected, after all there is no other nation half as fixated on them as her).
It's a sad fact, but rarely does Russia have such sweet dreams consecutively in one night. Therefore, it's only expected that he doesn't take well when he is awoken by the ringing of his cell phone.
He's laying down with his podsolnechik in his arms, she's smirking and leans down to whisper in his ear and—
RING! RING! RING!
Russia flips over and tries to ignore the noise.
The bright blue Kansas sky falls away, the sun is obscured by storm clouds and a funnel appears on the horizon—
RING! RING! RING!
He tosses and turns.
The wail of gale force winds approaching causes both nations to leap to their feet, America screams—
RING! RING! RING! RING! RING! RING! RING! RING!
Russia springs to wakefulness and the first emotion he experiences is wrath. He grabs his cellphone of the nightstand and looking down, realizes that his pushy caller is none other than Amelia.
'She neglects to call earlier and now she interrupts my sleep. Surely she must realize how late it is.'
When Russia answers her call, he doesn't expect the blind panic that she is experiencing. America had a habit of watching horror movies and then becoming so scared she'd call to reassure herself that ghosts weren't real or that everyone hadn't been dragged to hell or some nonsense.
However, the sheer panic, the fright lacing through her voice does not match with her usual tirades about ghosts. His ire melts to concern as he tries to calm her down enough that he might be able to understand what it is that has struck such fear into the usually carefree girl.
His attempts are unsuccessful.
The only information he can get from her is to stop by the store and pick up doll clothes of all things and to hurry to her house.
He wants to believe that she's pranking him or something, but the trembling in her voice, causes him to grow somber and to doubt it.
He's dressed and out the door pipe in hand in a few minutes and on his way to a store and then her house.
When Russia reaches America's house he is confused and concerned. He'd followed through with her odd request and at a dollar store near her D.C. neighborhood, he'd found those American dolls that were so popular, Barbies. Despite how embarrassed he might've been had she asked any other time, his need to rush to her overpowers those feelings.
At any rate the cashier, on skeleton duty in the early hours before day break, could've cared less why the huge foreign man with the pipe in hand was buying a children's toy.
Russia approaches the door cautiously and rings the bell.
No one answers. He tries again and after a few seconds pulls out the key that he rarely has to use, because the younger nation is a usually right there bouncing full of energy.
The house that he's come to love is oddly silent and dark. It reminds him of the setting in many of Amelia's horror movies.
There is no sign of her, not even the rude little extraterrestrial that resides with her.
He travels from room to room, and in each he is disappointed to find it empty. Finally coming to her room, he opens the door with care and looks around fighting it empty too.
He enters and his eyes focus on the cell phone lying on the nightstand. The flowers he's brought her last time are knocked over and her things in disarray.
He approaches her bed and is horrified to find that lying in the rumpled covers are Amelia's pajamas, but no Amelia. They look worn and are laid out as those she'd just been in them disappeared or faded away.
Blind panic fears Russia at the notion. She couldn't have just faded away, the United States is still a major country filled with citizens and business.
It's nowhere near disappearing like the ancient nations before them.
He ruffles the clothes searching for a clue, when it happens.
Amelia in miniature pops her head from beneath the covers and Russia freezes in disbelief.
"Ivan! I just woke up and I was like this and I don't know whathappened and whatamIgonnado-
There's a beat of silence and Amelia pauses in her panicked frenzy to look at her boyfriend. Or at least where he was just standing…
Amelia peers over the side to see Ivan Braginski, representative of the Russian Federation, former USSR and one of the most unshakeable men she's ever met (and dated) making out with the floor.
Or embracing it if that sounds better.
Amelia stares over the side, slaps a palm to her face and her final thought is that of frustration.
"Thanks Vanya...It's gonna be a real bitch getting down there…"