Hello! The Russiamerica community on lj had an event for the Cuban Missile Crisis that included a prompt for each day. I wasn't able to write something for all of them, but the ones that I ended up filling will all be posted here as chapters. They are all stand-alone stories.
Title: I Am Become Death
Prompt: Look to the sky
Rating: PG
Summary: The missiles are on the way to wipe out Moscow and DC. Russia and America talk, and still don't get anywhere.
The sky has gone dark, hanging like a shroud over Washington. America's citizens have poured out in a panic already, abandoned cars and buses on the road, left their doors hanging open. Even the looters didn't hang around long. If there are any of his children left here, they're not going anywhere. Outside there is a still, deathly silence, surreal for a city that only hours before teemed with life. America doesn't know where they've gone, if they're safe, if they'll survive. It doesn't seem to matter much right now. Not much does, actually. Maybe it's the radiation.
The phone in his hand, now there's something that matters. Russia's on the other end of that phone. It's not their red phone, although the symbolism would be appropriate, it's just a phone off a secretary's desk in the State Department, which was the first government building he'd been near when New York was hit.
"It hurts, doesn't it?" Russia's voice sounds tinny and far away, and America doesn't know if it's him or the phone. It got hard to hear after Boston went.
"Not as much as it does for you, I bet," he returns, almost offhand. He's imagining Russia's skin covered in blackened, charred spots, little love spots. He's got them too, of course, dark fingerprints mapping out all his vital points. When he wraps his arms around himself and closes his eyes, he can almost smell Berlin again in the smoke of his own ruins. They'd left marks on each other then, too.
"No. It doesn't bother me." Russia says, but he's lying. America knows because he can hear how heavy Russia's breathing, haa, haa, haa. It's almost like he's laughing. America thinks it's funny too. Earlier, several uniformed men had come to escort him to the President's temporary headquarters in Virginia. What they hadn't understood was that he wasn't going anywhere. He's not about to run from his capital, not even when an ICBM is speeding towards it. There's still some tiny part of America that believes that if Russia really wants to, he can stop the deadly little dart from reaching its target.
"It's going to bother you a whole lot when the next one hits Moscow," America purrs into the receiver. There's a part of him that believes he can stop that, too, if Russia asks him to right now.
"No, I don't think it will," Russia says. The line is silent for a moment, and then he adds, "Because when your missile gets here, there will be nothing left anyway."
It takes America a moment, and then another, because he had been so sure for an instant – only an instant, really – that Russia was going to—to panic, to beg, ask him to stop. His voice sounds weak even to his own ears. "…What?"
"My last missile, America," Russia says, and a thrill runs down America's spine at the way he growls the name. "There is one headed for Washington now, but the last is for me. I won't let you have this."
There's a moment where America does nothing but listen, as though he's expecting Russia to laugh, to admit that he's bluffing, anything – and then he rips the telephone cord out of the wall. The plastic receiver cracks and splinters in his hand, and he throws it to the ground with all the force he can muster.
It's utterly silent in the ghost town of his capital, just as it will be (soon, too soon) when the missile hits it. America staggers outside and onto the steps. The poison is starting to make its way into his veins, and it's becoming harder and harder to move. He tangles his legs beneath him and collapses halfway down the stairs, eyes fixed on the dark skies that soon death will be raining down from.
Somewhere in Moscow, he imagines, Russia is looking at that same sky, watching as his own missile comes to strike his heart into dust. Somewhere, Russia's eyes are open as the blast rips through him. Somewhere Russia is burning. He will burn too, soon enough, and it will be alone, without even the satisfaction of knowing Russia is dying with him. He wonders, with all the dust in the air, if he'll even be able to see it coming.
The sky is dark and somber, and it hangs over Washington like a veil to the other side of nothing. And until Russia's last gift comes to take him away, he'll sit here and just watch the world go by—