Disneytalia: I'll Make a Man Out of You
A/N: And here we are, Mulan's turn to take the stage! The brutality here is reminiscent (though I admit, a little embellished) of how von Steuban treated American soldiers during the Revolutionary War. But no matter what his tactics, he was able to make a ragtag bunch into a fighting unit that could match the powerful British Empire's army.
Also on a note of legitimacy: von Steuban didn't speak perfect English, so he therefore often had a translator curse at the soldiers for him.
Pairings: PruAme, if stared at through the world's biggest telescope.
Once again, please remember that I happily take requests!
February 23, 1777
Valley Forge, Pennsylvania
Continental Army Camp
The young colony was gulping, half shaking in his boots. If he was any other man, Gilbert Beilschmidt, representation of Prussia, would have laughed in his face, flicked his stupid cowlick, and left. He had no time to waste on weaklings such as this kid, this boy who thought he could be a country. Ah, but he was here for a very, very good cause. If this boy survived the rigorous days, weeks, and months that Gilbert was about to slam down on him, then he would be ready. No, he would be more than ready to take on the British Empire and break away from him forever, robbing Britain of both his little brother and one of his most powerful colonies.
Red eyes swept across the land, hungrily taking in its vast emptiness. The apparently sprawling green fields and strong oak trees had long given way to the frosty bite of winter. Snow covered the ground in a down blanket of white, dead and dying trees dotted the landscape. On a summer day, this place was likely beautiful, with rolling hills and gentle grasses and flowers everywhere. It was hardly the place for a military camp, but it seemed that the Continental Army was doing what it could; many of the men, Gilbert noticed, lacked boots.
But the army was to be placed under the charge of General von Steuben, a well-respected man from Gilbert's own country. Gilbert himself would never and should never come into contact with any of these men. Here, he was a ghost, a spirit that would fly in, strengthen their future country briefly, then fly out, a memory that would soon fade. They would only catch a glimpse of him at most, or perhaps hear his signature laugh. If they were truly lucky, perhaps they would even be able to catch a sound or two from Gilbird, who was perched precariously atop his master's head. But that was it, because Gilbert was not here to train them.
Gilbert was here to train little America to go to war.
He stared up (up!) at the hopeful country with red eyes, drinking in the tremulous, yet determined orbs of sky blue. America had written to him just before the first snow fell, imploring him to come and bring his people to train them and train them hard. It was in his blood, his history, that his nation had the most powerful army in the world. There was little wonder why the Prussian took pride in that. He was capable, nay destined, to lend a hand in the British Empire's demise. And it would all begin with this little colony here.
"Let's get down to business," he said, smirking. He had brought with him numerous supplies, most of them looking more like torture devices than training equipment. He could see it from the way that little America, Alfred, eyed them nervously. "To defeat Britain!"
He started immediately by throwing America right into the sand-filled bag, watching as the younger crashed into it and lay there on the ground, groaning. Prussia's eyes glowed with red fire as he charged and, not expecting his attack, the American could do nothing except cry out and whine as the silver-haired nation's hard boot met with his crotch. Disgusted by the lack of strength and reflex, Gilbert stood over his new young charge and spat on his face. Alfred winced when the spittle hit him, as if burned by acid.
"Will you cry and grovel?" Gilbert asked, gripping the boy by the collar and lifting him, despite the fact that the other was considerably taller. "When you're sure to win?" he threw the boy back to the ground and stood back, watching as Alfred struggled to his feet. Mud caked his trousers and tears ran down his face, but nonetheless, Gilbert looked on proudly as Alfred managed to fight his way through the mud and the tears. But he did not show it; an army was not built on idle praise.
He strode forward and grabbed onto Alfred's arm, examining the hardened muscle from years of numerous odd jobs servicing the British Empire. He was well-built, with powerful arms from his time as a blacksmith and a mason. His legs were rather muscular as well, likely from farming or horse-feeding or whatever the fuck the British colonies did to make their legs so nice. Still though, there was plenty of work to be done, and it was with a grip so hard that Alfred winced that Gilbert yanked him down so that the sky met a blood-filled river.
"You're the weakest bitch I've ever met, but you can bet before we're through," he let go and spun around, landing a blow on Alfred's stomach. His abs were rather well-off, but it was easy to tell where a good majority of the work had to go. As Alfred doubled over, Gilbert took some time to sock the younger in his face. "Alfred I'll …" the American stumbled back, grasping his nose, blood gushing through his fingers. Gilbert took that opportunity for a harsh kick to the other's stomach, sending him sprawling to the mud. "Make a man…" he followed up with a nice, hard stomp right in Alfred's nuts. "Out of you!"
He spat one last time on the mewling, coughing form before walking off to get something to eat.
December 29, 1777
Valley Forge, Pennsylvania
Continental Army Camp
Saratoga had been won.
But the war was not yet over.
Alfred was progressing well. He had managed to go from a whining, mewling colony to the very tiny beginnings of a future country that Gilbert envisioned. He just needed at least ten more centuries worth of training before he could be considered mediocre. He watched slightly uninterested as Alfred attacked a sand-filled bag with his musket, slamming into it with his bayonet before attacking it with his boot. His form was rather nice, his precision top-notch, and the bright flame that burned behind his blue eyes made Gilbert suddenly remember the good old days, when he was more conqueror than country.
Still, though, an army was not built on idle praise.
Footsteps sounded behind him. Gilbert didn't have to look around to know who it was. Baron Friedrich Wilhelm August Heinrich Ferdinand von Steuben grunted a little as he too began watching the colony before turning to his country, speaking in their native language so that the American wouldn't hear anything.
"Forceful as ten oxen, and on fire within," von Steuben remarked, gesturing to the boy, who was now in the process of focusing on three bags, three enemies, at once. "Once he finds his center, he is sure to win."
Gilbert sneered. "He's a cocky, stupid, pathetic kid. And he hasn't got a clue." Gilbert clapped his hand on von Steuben's shoulder and began leading him away, fully intent on getting as drunk as possible with the man.
As he walked away, however, he called over his shoulder to Alfred, in English, "Somehow we'll make a man out of you!"
May 20, 1778
Barren Hill, Pennsylvania
Continental Army Camp
Alfred was brought in, unconscious, bleeding from numerous bullet wounds. He was carted upon the shoulder of one of his men, who looked none the better. Gilbert was forced to abandon his drink and walk over to regard his charge. Alfred looked like a mess, with blood all over his uniform, his hair in tatters, and mud all over his form.
The British Empire had attempted to bag a force led by the Marquis de Lafayette by encircling it on all sides. Luckily, the Marquis knew of a different path that allowed him to slip away from the oncoming army, evading that idiot caterpillar brows another day. No doubt, Britain would be furious when he found out how easily a Frenchman managed to evade his high and mighty army. Though there were few casualties, the British still managed to hit a few. It seemed that Alfred was one of them.
Gilbert spoke in his native tongue as soon as Alfred began to stir. "Someone cuss at him for me!"
One of his men ran over and saluted. Gilbert jerked his head at Alfred and watched with slight amusement as the poor colony was jerked awake by his man's heavily accented yelling. "Hope you enjoy your bitch time! Fuck, what are you, a pussy or a bitch?"
"Isn't this a little too much?" Alfred asked. He was immediately smacked in the face.
"GET THE FUCK UP AND RUN NOW!" Gilbert roared, causing even his own man to jump. "AND THEN COME BACK AND FUCKING SUCK IT UP!"
"I'M GOING!" Alfred squeaked, leaping up and dashing right out of the tent, leaving a large dust cloud behind. Covering his mouth, Gilbert walked over to the flap of the tent to watch the disappearing cloud, raising an eyebrow. The colony had actually managed to impress him a bit.
"He is as swift as a fleeing Italian," Gilbert remarked, rubbing his chin. He rolled his eyes as, somewhere in the distance, Alfred tripped over something, most likely air. "With all the grace of a dead possum." he snickered. "With all the strength of a raging fire. So determined that he's kinda awesome." he shook his head and walked back into the tent.
July 4, 1778
Monmouth, New Jersey
Continental Army Camp
"Time is racing towards us," Gilbert said proudly as he sat enjoying a beer. Von Steuben was off screaming at the soldiers again, so he was stuck with only his pet bird for company. The small chick had developed a taste for the fine drink and was currently tottering around the table, drunk off his tail feathers. "Until our win arrives. Just a few more battles, and they might survive!" he began to take a sip again, only to be interrupted by the sounds of sniffling. God, he hated sniffling.
Gilbert stood up and walked around the camp, his sensitive ears twitching a little as he continued to attempt to locate the source of the baby in the company. The noises brought him all the way to Alfred's tent and, much to his disgust, he was able to identify the heavy stench of alcohol emitting from its flap. Gilbert didn't even bother to announce his presence before he walked in.
He knew how terrible it felt to yearn to freedom, for independence. He knew of the episodes where there was nothing but guilt wracking the future nation and they would descend into depression, knowing full well that, in this vulnerable state, they wanted to go back so much but knew they couldn't. He understood the need for time and patience to slowly let go of these feelings, knowing that when it came down to it, the would-be nations would always hold a deep, fond connection to their caretaker.
But war was war and there was no time for any sort of patience.
So that was why, when he found Alfred, vulnerable as the day he first began training the boy, clutching to a small portrait of Britain, he did not show pity. He did not show anger. He didn't even show disappointment.
"You're unsuited for the rage of war," Gilbert said emotionlessly. Blue eyes, brighter than the sun and moon themselves, flicked up at him, silently begging him to stop speaking. But war was harsh and Gilbert knew he had to be harsh if they were to win. "So pack up, go home, you're through." he turned away, silently sensing the American's pleas for him not to go, not to give up on him so soon. Gilbert only shook his head. "How could I make a man out of you?"
He smiled inwardly when he heard the sound of a portrait being smashed under someone's foot.
September 19, 1778
Valley Forge, Pennsylvania
Continental Army Camp
Battle was coming. Gilbert could almost taste it. Things were beginning to go on-edge as of late, and the soldiers of the training camp were growing impatient. They could sense the beginning of the end. It was just over that last crest, beyond that final ravine. They craved it, hungered for it. They knew that independence, that freedom was near, and all they had to do was reach out and touch it. Gilbert and von Steuben often spoke of their progress over a nightly flagon, but they never spoke in English.
An army was never built on idle praise.
That was why, as Gilbert sat atop his horse during Alfred's fifty kilometer run, he had to refrain from screaming encouragements at the boy. Alfred was doing well, he was doing very well. He was now easily able to rip his way through a good amount of opponents with his bayonet, and his shooting had become smoother and sharper. With both France and Spain now lending their assistance, there was little to do now except sit and wait for British defeat.
Under Gilbert's tutelage, the young colony was able to run faster and farther each passing day. Fifty kilometers, once a huge burden, seemed almost nothing now. Gilbert would sometimes return from a fine meal with the army to see Alfred lifting extremely heavy weights like they were mere feathers on his shoulders.
"You must be swift as a coursing river," Gilbert instructed in their final hand-to-hand combat of the day. Alfred's blows were quick; more than once, Gilbert just barely missed getting injured, but they were not quick enough. "With all the force of a great typhoon." he ducked, barely missing a kick. He swung his leg forward, only to have it caught. But when Alfred attempted to punch him, Gilbert blocked the blow and managed to land a blow on the American's stomach, loosening the hold on his leg. "With all the strength of a raging fire." Gilbert, leaped back to avoid another kick from those powerful legs. He went in for the punch, only for Alfred to side-step and counterattack with his fist, which Gilbert barely dodged once again. "Mysterious as the dark side of the mo-OW!" Gilbert had gone in for an attempted side-attack, only for Alfred to reach forward, grab his leg, and twist it so the Prussian was slammed to the ground.
Gilbert laid there for a few long moments, defeated and stunned. He had done it. The boy had done it. There was nothing left for him to teach him. Getting shakily to his feet, Gilbert grasped Alfred's hand and pulled the boy into a firm hug, patting his bruised back.
"Good job… United States of America."
October 19, 1781
Yorktown, Virginia
Siege of Yorktown
The bullets whizzed past him, as if in slow motion, and he dodged them all. His boots pounded on the earth as he charged towards the lone figure in red. He skidded to a stop in front of the green-eyed man, his musket locked squarely upon the Briton's chest.
"Hey, Britain."
Be a man.
You must be swift as a coursing river.
He felt unbroken, uncluttered, alive. He felt freer now than he ever did when he was trapped in his own home. He could feel the wind singing in his chest, the river rushing through his veins, the earth beneath his feet. Everything and nothing was happening all at once, and nothing, not even the sharp tang of blood in his mouth could dim what he could feel this day.
"All I want is my freedom."
He could see the flash behind those green eyes: that of anger, of disbelief, of denial, and… of pride? Of love? What was he seeing? This was Britain, this was the British Empire. The sun never set on him. He was all powerful, he could have anything he wanted. And yet, all he could see was the horrible sadness upon the other man's feature, mixed with the pride of an empire long ago isolated with his own loneliness.
Be a man.
With all the force of a great typhoon.
It was raining. When head it begun raining? Those thoughts soon vanished from his mind as soon as his sky blue eyes met the poisonous green ones of the man who had once been his caretaker, his big brother, his friend.
"I'm no longer a child, nor your little brother."
Be a man.
With all the strength of a raging fire.
Did he hate those words? Possibly. No, undoubtedly. There was no doubt that the man before him hated those words. He stood there, swathed in crimson red, holding musket out, but yet to fire. He could see the way the gun trembled in his grasp, the way the rain transformed his hair into a swirling whorl of spun gold. His eyes, bright like emeralds, were wet. His mouth was twisted in a horrifying grimace of anger and sadness.
Mysterious as
"From now on…"
the dark side of
"Consider me…"
the moon.
"INDEPENDENT!"
BOOM!
