Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himeruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.
Summary: Empires were once the most powerful Fighters in the universe, but they all died or disappeared fifty years ago. Didn't they?
Title: Empire
Chapter Two: Bond
Word Count: 6,236
Page Count: 9
[Total Word Count: 11,569]
[Total Page Count: 17]
Anime: Hetalia
Pairing(s) in this chapter: US/UK/US
Warning: Language, BL
Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)
Date: Monday, June 21, 2010
Miscellaneous notes: My native-English-speaking brain says it will be "an NT" and "a Navigational Tank". Because "NT" is pronounced in my head as "en-tee", it sounds really weird without the "an" before it. D: I also apologize for the random plethora of quotes that crop up later. ;.; [ W-Well, they do have to memorize all the literature of their countries at an early age in this AU—s-so it makes sense (read: is justified), right? x.x ]
I should be writing for "Tampering With Mail Clerks Is Illegal" (my other US/UK/US AU fic—hereafter referred to as TWMCII), but this plot isn't letting my brain go (I didn't realize I missed sci-fi so much!). x.o;; Thankfully, this should be a really short fic (likely around five or six chapters), so there might yet be hope… ? x/x Saa.
: : : : : : :
"He is not your son, Mrs. Kirkland. Do you understand that?" The dark-haired English woman nodded hastily from seated position in her hospital bed, holding her shaking arms out for the bundle of cloth settled in the arms of the Military's technician, the two guards flanking the scientist behind him. His eyes narrowed behind his glasses, and he glanced down at the shuffling cloth before pinning her with another glare. "He is not human, Mrs. Kirkland, and you are never to treat him as such. He is ENGLAND5668-7983, and you will call him nothing else, or he will be taken away from you. Do you understand?"
"Yes, yes! Just, please—" At last he stepped forward, and deposited the swathed toddler in her arms with as much care as one who has never truly handled children can. The woman's face broke into a huge, tearful smile as she gazed down at the sleeping, innocent face of the babe. "My boy—Oh, dear, sweet lad." She stroked a reverent, motherly finger down his sleeping cheek with another sob as her heart swelled. When she looked up, the scientist smiled quietly at her.
"We will be in touch. Farewell, Mrs. Kirkland."
And from that day on, the Kirklands finally had a 'son' of their own.
: : :
"But Mummy! I wanna go outside an' play!" Her four-year-old boy pouted, pulling at her apron, green eyes bearing up on her imploringly. She smiled carefully, patting him softly on the head as she knelt down to his level.
"Pet, you know what the doctors said. You are too weak, you might get hurt. Besides, don't you need to be reading your books?" Even at such a young age, he had too much to memorize. What was more amazing was that it seemed he could recall it all! That aside, though, she knew if the scientists heard her addressing him in such a way they would scold her, but—Mrs. Kirkland couldn't quite help herself. Her little boy—no, not hers, but oh god was it as good as true—frowned and looked down at the floor of their American flat, his bushy brows furrowing downward. They were here in America instead of England because ENGLAND5668-7983 was very important, and the odds of him being targeted if they lived outside of their home-grid were low. Yes, both she and her husband were from England, but the unexpected benefit of living here was that it was also cheaper because there was so much more room. Despite the fact it was crowded… She sighed, lifting a hand to brush the boy's fringe from his face, and then cupped his cheek, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper.
"If you're good, honey, we can go on a walk to the park, later. How does that sound?" His bright eyes lit up immediately and he flung his arms around her neck with a giggle.
"I love you, Mummy!" She winced inwardly, wondering what that scientist would think of her if he knew she'd broken her promise, and treated ENGLAND5668-7983 just like the son she'd never had, but—it didn't really matter now, did it? So Mrs. Kirkland just wrapped her arms around him in return, holding him tight to her bosom with a whispered endearment against his hair.
"Yes, I love you too, my precious little angel."
: : :
They've moved, again, although still within America. England is six, now, and his weekends are slowly being claimed by "The Agency"—headed by a man in a white lab coat that makes his mummy uncomfortable. Oh, she doesn't say she's uncomfortable, but when that man in the coat meets them outside the complex her cold hand tightens around England's for a brief moment before she gives him a forced smile and lets go, pushing him gently so that the impersonal feel of the man's latex gloves can rub onto his fingers, instead. He looks back at her as the man leads him away, and she smiles reassuringly, raising her hand to wave—the view of his mummy is cut off as the white doors slide shut behind him, and England looks up at the man beside him. He is not scared of him anymore, but still wary, and those dark brown eyes glint at him as the man chuckles, and tightens his grip on his hand. They walk past the white desk and down the white hall. This place is white, and barren, and, and perfect—so very unlike his cozy, messy home far from here.
"ENGLAND5668-7983, I trust you have been keeping up with your lessons?" He nods, vehemently, wanting to prove that his mummy is doing her job perfectly well. Her job is really to educate him, and he doesn't want her to get in any trouble, because he doesn't want her to go away.
"Uh-huh! Mummy—" England gets a sideways glare thrown at him for that and purses his lips, straightening and evening out his tone to sound more mature. "…M-Mr. and Mrs. Kirkland have been making me do them." The man nods approvingly, and as they pass through another set of doors to head down an even longer hall, the ceiling spherical and sloped over their heads.
"Would you recite Shakespeare's epitaph for me, then? You should know that by now, and it's been so long since I last heard it." The words are drawn out of his memory before England can realize it and his lips part as his eyes glaze over.
"Good frend for Iesvs sake forbeare, to digg the dvst encloased heare. Bleste be ye man yt spares thes stones, And cvrst be he yt moves my bones." The man nodded, again, chuckling softly.
"A curious fact, that even as the war approached, the people of Old England refused to move the bard from his resting place." Blinking out of his recitation, England glanced up at the man, eyes wide.
"They did?" There was a tight smile as that firm grip heightened its pressure, just a little bit.
"Yes. But that is neither here nor there. You are ready for your test? If you do well, we'll be putting you in a simulated NT, today." His eyes brightened with glee and anticipation as England nodded, hastily.
"Yes, sir!"
: : :
It was the best day of his life—the first time he got to slide into a real, full-size NT in the lab. The pink liquid pulsed around him and he giggled, flapping his arms and delighting in the slight resistance the scrawny limbs found. He tried to peer out of the glass cylinder towards the man he knew was outside of it, but a crackle of radio met his senses, instead.
"ENGLAND5668-7983, are you able to hear us?" He nodded out of habit.
"Yes, ma'am!" England heard typing through the radio and amused himself by swishing and turning his small body in the adult-size tank—there was plenty of room to move around, unlike in the simulated ones designed specifically for children~!—still giggling a little as his boxer shorts fluttered with the movement.
"ENGLAND5668-7983, you should see a holopad before you. Please enter your identification." It bleeped to life in front of his face just as she said it would and he smiled at it, stubby fingers carefully typing in his full name with slow deliberation. Just before pressing the big green circle at the bottom, he paused, blinking up towards the glass of the cylinder, knowing they could see him even if he couldn't see them.
"Why?" He heard a sigh on the other end, the female technician sounding just slightly exasperated.
"I suppose you should learn this now… By entering your identification number, it confirms that you are authorized to work an NT and also retrieves your biological and mental statistics from the system. It alters the fluid in the tank so it can better adjust to your body, ENGLAND5668-7983. It is like… fitting something especially to you, so that you can function comfortably and attain premium efficiency. There are also chemicals that are released to help your mind adapt to this type of performance." He blinked. Were he any other child, most of those terms would have flown straight over his head, but as an RIT—Representative-In-Training—he easily understood everything any other six-year-old would stutter at, due to his altered brain and the successful ingestion of thousands of years of his country's literature, culture and history.
"Oh! OK!" England beamed, and pressed the lit green circle on the holopad to log on.
: : :
They'd moved, again. Not that it really made a difference, because he didn't go to school like the other children, but… He missed the last place they'd lived at. It was a little further out of the way, quiet, with scenes of meadows and forests and animals long extinct—but here they'd been plopped right smack-dab in the center of the city. The only saving grace was the docks on the outskirts of town, and the projected image of a sky over three feet of simulated not-water. Humans may have moved on from Earth, but they still craved the beauty of the natural scenes from it. England thought on this oddity, eyes distant as he stared ahead and remembered things he had never really seen.
Was Old England really so pretty as all that? He looked up, imagining the cloudless sky filled with clouds and rumbling in anger as rain pulsed overhead. There was no rain here, naturally. England wondered what it felt like. Was rain like when he was splashed with water, in the tub? Was it like being drenched, like when he held his breath and dove under the surface? Or was it more like the inside of an NT tank—was rainwater like that goopy pink stuff he'd grown used to, over time, or was it different?
These were all pointless musings—he didn't know, and with Earth's ozone layer ripped open, exposing the world beneath it to the raw effects of space, he would never know. It didn't matter, did it? If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel rain on the skin of the millions of peoples' memories he carried in his mind, nearly feel the cool, almost ticklish feel of random drops of warm water falling on his skin. But he knew he couldn't really remember it, not like the people who had given him these memories could. So he stared silently at the not-water beneath his swaying feet at the end of the dock and recited.
"I never saw a man who looked with such a wistful eye upon that little tent of blue which prisoners call the sky." Oscar Wilde, 1856-1900. England smiled up at the sky, sadly trying to locate the tent that Mr. Wilde spoke of. He wondered why that particular poem had come to mind. After all, it wasn't as though he was a prisoner… He bowed his head and breathed out another.
"Reminiscences make one feel so deliciously aged and sad." George Bernard Shaw, 1856-1950. Oh, how true it was! He was so young, and yet could remember so much—was it a curse, then? England almost laughed. It was a near-hysterical laugh that gave way to more poetic mumbles spilling from his lips, his ankles beating against the underside of the dock as he stared unseeingly out at the fake sunset, mind humming with too much information and eyes startlingly wide.
"A child is beset with long traditions. And his infancy is so old, so old, that the mere adding of years in the life to follow will not seem to throw it further back - it is already so far." Alice Meynell, 1847-1922. So old. He was already so old, with so many memories not his own. Did these poets understand? No, they couldn't, they were long dead and buried in ruined ground. England started to breathe after a moment, though, calming down and squeezing his eyes shut at a sudden sharp pain in his chest that he couldn't quite place. The next quote came out as only a breath.
"Nothing is more sad than the death of an illusion." Arthur Koestler, 1905-1983. What would happen if the humans lost all these holograms that reminded them of their dead world? Would they waste away out of sadness? It seemed improbable, but then again so many of them were weak. —Or maybe it was his own illusion he'd thought of? Maybe he had no life or self, after all. Maybe it was all just fabricated. Everything about him resurrected after he died. Over and over and over.
"Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England as I trust shall never be put out." Bishop Hugh Latimer, 1485-1555. He tipped his head back, again watching the sky.
In England as he trusts… In me as he trusts… As they all trust…
That's right. He was going to grow up big and strong and help fight the Soviet Military, and every native Englishman counted on him. They all did, to be sure he held their great country in his head and acted just as he should. But—he couldn't act as he wanted, then? What did he want to do? Did he want to spend his entire life fighting, fighting, only fighting… Couldn't he do as he pleased, just once? Couldn't he be—
"If there is a look of human eyes that tells of perpetual loneliness, so there is also the familiar look that is the sign of perpetual crowds." Alice Meynell, again, 1847-1922. England's mouth quirked up at a corner, and he scrubbed one of his arms over his eyes as he closed them, hiding a sniffle. He wasn't human, so he couldn't be lonely. There was just no one else like him that he had ever met. Maybe, when he was serving under the United Military in active duty, he would finally meet others like—?
"Heeey!" He jerked at the sudden voice, turning around, eyes wide at having been caught alone in such a state. Oh, Mummy would yell at him for wandering off, she would—he blinked. Before him stood a smiling child, blue eyes glimmering at him happily above a friendly grin. Then he laughed, sprinting forward and England jumped in surprise as little arms wound around his neck in an affectionate hug, cherubic laughter lighting the air. "Siwy boy~!" The lad giggled only more, hugging him again before drawing back, eyes sparkling and putting out a hand. "C'mon, Mommy's makin' din-din!" And before he knew it his hand was in this little stranger's—with those chubby cheeks and short stature, at least four years his junior—, and the seven-year-old was pulled along with a breathy, disbelieving laugh into a life he'd never known.
: : :
"…'merica." He looked up at the almost-nine-year-old—his best-best-friend-slash-bestest-big-brother of the past two years—grinning widely and showing his missing front tooth.
"Uh-huh?" America swung his legs back and forth over the dock as they gazed at the sunset. They both knew it wasn't real, but it was pretty and that was all that really mattered. England was standing next to him, his hands in the pockets of his shorts. He was quiet. America pouted, slapping the older boy on the shins with the back of his hand and a whine. "C'mooon, say i' awready!"
England glared down at him, and kicked him in the thigh as a response, but otherwise only scowled and looked away, fidgeting nervously.
"…'merica." Green eyes fell on him and he frowned. England looked sad. "Would you… miss me, if I went away?" His own eyes widened.
"Engwand's goin' 'way?" England snapped at him, his quick temper showing.
"Oh, grow up, would you! It's just a question!" But England was fidgeting again, and soon he plopped down beside him on the dock. At their ages, America only came up to England's shoulder, but he did peer up to the older boy's face, squinting at him.
"…som'sin's bad." Green eyes jerked to him, wide with—what? America frowned, lifting a hand and placing it atop England's, which was resting on the dock between them. "Som'sin' bad 'appened, right, Engwand?" At last his friend's shoulders deflated, and America felt his palm turn over, fingers lightly curling over the edges of his smaller hand. England looked into the simulated sunset instead of at their hands, though, a small frown on his lips. America squeezed his hand as hard as he could, and England winced, glaring at him a moment before releasing a sigh with a faint smile tugging around the edges of it.
"Mummy said… I'll have to go away for a while, 'merica." America bit his lip, looking down and trying to keep his sniffles quiet. "She says I gotta go in for some… training, or practice, or whatever the hell they—" America gasped, cutting off the rest of that sentence to point at his friend.
"Engwand! You sa' da bad word!" For a moment England flushed in embarrassment. An instant later, though, he got this strange bold look in his eyes and jumped to his feet, cupping his hands around his mouth and yelling at the sunset.
"Y'hear that, Mummy? I said a bad word! Hell! Bugger! Damn! Bollocks! Shit! Wanker! Fuck! Bloody!" By this time America was dissolving into giggles beside him, rolling on the dock and dangerously close to falling off.
"Ahahaha-ehehe, Engwand's got a potty mouth! Potty mouth!" Still flushed from his rebellious moment England grinned down at him, puffing out his chest.
"That's right! I'm a big grown-up bloke with a potty mouth, so watch out!"
They laughed together.
: : :
It was only after England arrived that they told him he wouldn't be permitted to leave for another nine years. Nine years! He'd been alive for exactly that long, and they were saying that when he was double his current age, he'd be free to go? He whined and cried and threw a tantrum so bad they had to call in his Mummy, who picked him up, held him close and stroked his hair as his choked sobs slowly started to taper off. She soothed him, told him that they'd stayed close to America's family and would try to keep in touch, but that England had to focus on his training. She was sorry, she said, for not telling him how long the training would be, but the man in the white coat had told her not to. England bit his lip, nodding and at last realizing that his Mummy couldn't disobey the man just like he couldn't.
It was over the course of these nine years that he found out exactly what he was, and what all the other ENGLANDs of the past had been, and how to activate his "Empire Mode" should his life be in danger. He was told that only under the worst circumstances could he activate it—but to not hesitate to activate it, because saving his own life was more important than keeping his identity as an Empire Reincarnate a secret. Nine years was a long time, and they made him swear to tell no one—not his Mummy, not America, not anyone—for his own safety. As far as everyone knew he was just one of the regular RITs, nothing special about him at all. Naturally, he wasn't informed of what other countries' RITs held an Empire Mode, but as it was all very top secret he wasn't surprised. The only ones that knew of his identity were the man in the white lab coat, the head of the United Military (of course!), and now himself.
So he didn't try to think too much into the fact he'd have to keep this heavy revelation from his closest friend and confidante. Just in case, he stopped writing to America around this time, not wanting to let the terrifying truth leak out. He resumed soon enough, waving off his lack of communication by saying he'd been in extensive training that lasted weeks. It was true, in a way.
And nine years later, his training complete at the age of eighteen, England was allowed to go home.
: : :
America had just gotten home last week, granted his annual vacation from training. He only had five years of the required seven done, so it would be a little while yet before he'd be completely finished. His own training time was a far cry from England's nine (at least America got a vacation every year!), but he brushed that off as England just being special because he was England and amazing like that. At the moment, the fourteen-year-old was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, trying to peek around the other people waiting and grinning so wide his lips might crack. He held the sign high above his head, waving it in the air so crazily it was no wonder people were giving him a wide berth. America kept his eyes trained on the passengers disembarking, trying to spot a familiar pair of large eyebrows, but to no avail. Half the people getting off wore the regulation dull red sweatshirts, and (likely because it was so cold on the transport ship) the hoods were pulled up over their heads. America pouted, but didn't lower his sign although he eventually stopped swinging as his arms started to burn. He held it up there firmly, though, face set as he watched the flood of people exiting become a trickle.
A corner of his lips twitched into an attempted frown. England had said that this was the day he was coming back—but where was he? A soft tap on his shoulder made him jump, and he turned around. He frowned, again, only a little deeper this time. The person was wearing one of those red regulation sweatshirts, but he was a head shorter than him! No way that could be England. Still, America put on a bright smile, keeping his hands in the air and stubbornly holding his sign, nonetheless. England could be getting off late, after all!
"Uh, yeah? Wha'dya want? Need directions?" The person shuffled a little, and stuck their hands in their pockets, the hood hiding their face as they looked away. America frowned more, and his tone unintentionally grew a little sharp. "Well? Do you? Yes or no? See, I'm busy, waiting for a friend and—" The person's shoulders were shaking. Guilt rushed through him. "H-Hey! I didn't mean to make ya cry, are you—"
"You unspeakable moron!" America let out a squawk as arms abruptly flung around his neck, and the stranger was hanging off him, chest shaking with helpless laughter. He blinked, then. That accent…
"England?" …okay, that sounded way too much like a girly shriek—but England was still chuckling, so it was okay. America just joined in, dropping his sign and wrapping his arms around him in return, giggling into his ear.
"Ehehe, you've gotten short—like a girl—OW!" The embrace ended abruptly as America hopped on one foot, clutching the one that'd been stomped on. England stepped back to glare at him, arms now crossed grumpily over his chest.
"The first thing you say to me after nine bloody years is that I'm like a girl?" …okay, now that unmanly shriek was all England. America's grin stretched wide, and, laughing, he lunged for his friend (the pain in his foot apparently forgotten), arms outstretched to snare him in another hug.
"Hahaha, you sound like one, too! Although you've still got that potty m—OW!" Elbow to the diaphragm. America wheezed, the attempt at a hug foiled as he doubled over, palms clutching his stomach while England sniffed haughtily at him.
"Oh, belt up, you! Nobody asked for your opinion!"
At least they managed to get to his home in one piece.
: : :
England took the news of his mother's death very well, America thought, but that didn't mean he didn't feel anything. As the five of them sat down to break the news—England's father, and America's parents, and England and America—, Mr. Kirkland put a strong hand on England's shoulder and the blond offered him a quiet look of sorrow with a nod.
It just wasn't fair, though. America took off after the solemn meeting, dragging England with him to the old dock. The view hadn't changed—why would it, it was just a projection, after all—and they both sat staring into the holographic waves beating against the soles of their feet. It was now that America really realized he was a little taller than the older boy, and smiled to himself sadly as he gazed down at their bare, hanging feet. Nothing is different, but everything's changed. [0] He wasn't expecting what came out next, but when it did, his voice was soft.
"Let us speak, though we show all our faults and weaknesses, -for it is a sign of strength to be weak, to know it, and out with it - not in a set way and ostentatiously, though, but incidentally and without premeditation." [1] America felt England's eyes on him, now, and smiled a little sadly at his thighs before lifting his gaze and turning his head just so, meeting England's quiet stare with a slightly lopsided smile. "Only by contending with challenges that seem to be beyond your strength to handle at the moment you can grow more surely toward the stars." [2] He glanced up, towards the void of emptiness that was space, that held the little grid of 'America' within its endless grasp. Sometimes it was good to be the freaks they were, having every fact about their countries crammed into their heads. Sometimes, because right now it gave him an eloquence of speech he didn't usually posses.
"But I—" After those two syllables, England seemed to realize he was speaking and coughed to cover it up, glancing away towards the fake sunset, once more. He seemed to reformulate his thoughts, for the next utterance that escaped was only a whisper—a quote in response to his own, America realized. "The opportunities for heroism are limited in this kind of world: the most people can do is sometimes not to be as weak as they've been at other times." [3]
Here America paused, but only a moment, as he reached his hand out to cover England's—like that time before, so very long ago (nine years, in fact!), on this very dock. America hoped his own voice didn't sound desperate, but he really was trying to comfort England with this. England may have written to him, but he had no way of contacting the other, as he didn't know where he was, exactly, and besides England shouldn't be distracted by goings-on in the outside world while he was training. To have him here, now, only to be showered with so much pain—
"We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men; and among those fibers, as sympathetic threads, our actions run as causes, and they come back to us as effects." [4] He squeezed the smaller hand beneath his own, showing that he was a good effect and smiled again as England choked back a sad laugh. It really would do England good to let it out—he knew he'd want to cry if his mom had died without him knowing it. Mrs. Kirkland had passed only a few short years after England left, seeming to waste away without him. But then England squeezed back, and America looked up to find glistening green eyes on his own. He resisted the urge to try to raise a comforting hand to dispel those threatening tears.
"True courage is not the brutal force of vulgar heroes—" A slender hand cupped his cheek. "—Rather the firm resolve of virtue and reason." [5] England trailed off at the end, a few fingers from that hand tracing the lines of America's face as those jade eyes went unfocused, the end of that soft murmur eventually bleeding into another. England's voice hitched as it escaped almost too quickly to be heard. "T-Time misspent in youth is sometimes all the freedom one ever has!" [6]
America's eyes widened at the admission, laden with implications—but suddenly there was a shaking England slumped against his chest and so he slowly enfolded the older boy into a gentle, warm embrace, resting his chin on England's head and closing his eyes. England was still trembling beneath him, hands twisting in the fabric of his shirt and America raised one hand from around England's waist to smooth over his spine, whispering softly in his ear. He thought it was a little silly, continuing all of this quoting—but it was something only they could do, with their altered minds, so he understood. It was something only other RITs and Representatives could do, and because of that, these quotes of long-dead, sometimes obscure poets and writers from their respective homelands meant so much more than mere inadequate words of their own. It was so much easier to package their sorrow into a quote from long ago. And yet, even despite all that set them apart from normal humans, they were still so young—he had to wonder if processing such a vast amount of data so early on made their minds mature faster. Because, at only fourteen, America realized that his thoughts certainly felt like those of an old man. Or perhaps it was just how they had been made.
"Disciplining yourself to do what you know is right and important, although difficult, is the highroad to pride, self-esteem, and personal satisfaction." [7] America didn't care how stupid or cliché it sounded, right now England needed to know that he couldn't be blamed for his mother's death. England couldn't have done anything about it, after all! They were trained and given tasks to complete, for a reason—they were special, all of them, and no one else could do what they could. They had to do it, their cause was too noble and there was nothing to be done about the personal sacrifices they had to make.
"Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves." [8] That accented voice was weak and tight, and England buried more of his face into his shirt, breath catching horribly in his throat and so America only held him closer, half-muffling his friend's voice as it gave way to small sobs. "O-Oh, America, if only I could've—at least—if only I could've seen her once more… M-Mum, I-I-I—" America's heart nearly broke, at that, and he swallowed, drawing England flush against him, grip tightening protectively over his despairing friend as his head bowed and he pressed his mouth in a not-quite-kiss against the top of England's head, voice muted against his hair.
"I-It's not your fault, England. It's—you couldn't do anything, it's not your fault—"
But that didn't mean it hurt any less.
: : :
Four years later—the day America finished his training (two years of an apprenticeship in addition to the two years he originally had left) and officially joined the ranks of the United Military—came the day England resigned from being a Navigator, stubbornly vowing never to set foot in an NT again. Some argued it was because he was sick of manning the huge ships while the Fighters risked their lives in the actual battles. Others said it was personal, and had more to do with the fact England wanted to be by that new recruit—America, was it?—'s side in every fight instead of hovering safely far above in a ship.
Regardless, England had just as much skill as a Fighter as he had had as a Navigator, so they couldn't find any reason to refuse his abrupt switch in profession. More than that, he had an odd talent for magic. The Fighter units were equipped to handle any kind of attack their operators could come up with, but it had been a long time since anyone had used magic as their primary mode of offense.
While on the field, England stuck to America's back like glue, and they fought together as partners. Off the field, though, he started to avoid him like the plague, and took to always yelling at America for acting too reckless, punching him if he got too close, and generally acting like they'd never been friends.
"Hey, England, are you all right? You got hit pretty bad back—" The injured arm was snapped out of his hold, England storming off with yet another irate snarl.
"I'm fine! Leave me alone!" America frowned, but let his hand drop. He spotted Canada watching him as the quiet Navigator slinked off to follow England, and gave him a nod. Better for Canada to follow, since almost anything America seemed to do just annoyed England these days. Running a hand back through his hair, he sighed. Well, maybe he could find Prussia to blow off some steam. The guy was a pretty good listener when he felt like it, after all.
: : :
"You shouldn't yell at him so much." Pouting green eyes were aimed away as Canada tended to the injured Fighter's arm. He sighed, giving England a little smile as he leaned up to look at him. "Right?" Startled at the close proximity England blinked at him—then frowned a little, averting his eyes as he turned his head slightly to the side.
"I-It's not my fault he grew up to be so thick!" And England's cheeks tinged themselves pink, again. Canada laughed, nudging him gently on his uninjured side.
"Oh, England. Did you want him to chase after you?" A huffy, defensive crossing of arms made Canada snicker inside. Jade locked on him suspiciously after a beat, and Canada smiled once more.
"America's never going to get it if you keep acting like that, you know." Bristling shoulders took a few moments to slump, and a despondent sigh graced the air.
"I… I know, Canada. It's just… he's so different from before—from when we were small. He was so sweet and shy, and now he's so brash and confident. How could he ever possibly—?" England's gaze was distant, and he looked so utterly sure of that fact—his heart went out to him.
"He's not that different. He still cares about you the most, eh~?" A reddened face greeted his words, yet again.
"W-What do you mean?" Canada tempered the exasperated amusement threatening to brim up in his voice.
"He's always watching out for you on the field, and seeking your approval above everyone else's. Don't you think that means both you and your opinion matter to him—?" The Fighter turned away, quickly hiding his flush, once more. Did England really think he wasn't obvious? One had to wonder…
"I-I don't know, Canada. I don't know."
: : :
"England's got the hots for you. End of story. I'd tap that before it's too late, bud." Prussia's tone was blunt and coarse. America collapsed forward into the worktable, laughing helplessly and clutching his side with one hand.
"D-D-Dude! England's like my older brother! I've known him since I was knee-high! Y-You can't be serious—" America tried a grinning glance up at him and the mechanic snorted, kicking out at his guest and resulting in a meek 'ow, you bastard'.
"I am, and I see it." Prussia finally lit the cigarette that'd been dangling from his lips for the past minute, exhaling into the hangar as he plucked it with a blissful sigh. "Just don't take forever. Time doesn't wait, man." America just laughed at him, again.
"Oh, c'mon, England's not gonna keep this up forever. I'm sure he's just having a tough time, or something. Things'll be back to just like before, you'll see!"
Prussia had to wonder if all that time America spent with England as a kid had been what so completely deadened his senses concerning the guy. Because, really? What kind of idiot couldn't see that in England's eyes, whenever he looked at America?
: : :
After a while, the weird change in England's behavior started to annoy America and he began to draw away. Eventually it bled over onto the battlefield and they started to wander further and further from one another during encounters with the Soviets. Their infamous partnership was weakening, and it was during this phase that the Soviet Military lured America out on his own and—his Fighter already weak from the hard battle—ambushed him.
When England at last located America's abandoned Fighter unit it looked, to his horror, as though someone had punched the heart out, ripping the operator with brute force from the interior sphere they hovered in. The unit was damaged badly, but England still ordered it taken in and repaired, fruitlessly scanning the landscape for any sign of his friend. He searched the surrounding area for days, but eventually France and Canada dragged England away when it was clear that America was nowhere to be found.
: : :
[0] – Quote by Paul Simon (American)
[1] – Quote by Herman Melville (American)
[2] – Quote by Brian Tracy (American)
[3] – Quote by Angus Wilson (British)
[4] – Quote by Herman Melville (American)
[5] – Quote by Alfred North Whitehead (British)
[6] – Quote by Anita Brookner (American)
[7] – Quote by Brian Tracy (American)
[8] – Quote by Emily Bronte (British)
This is such a random AU. x.x [ I'm sorry! B-But it really is… ]
Reviews would vindicate me, in my mind, for daring to continue this (and thus allowing myself to get distracted from writing for TWMCII)—? ;.; -Fox
