The box cracked and finally gave way to the interior pressure as it exploded. The rough and jagged edges of the broken pieces scattered over the dimly, reflecting wooden floor. Mark flung himself to the floor and half-hid himself with the thin, black fabric underneath the couch. Burrowing between the couch and the soil-brown coffee table, he hitched his breath and attempted to be as still as possible.

"Come out, you idiotic, American git. Where are you?"

Mark raised his chest at the Liverpool-Infused accent the voice cried out with. After hearing the obviously human voice, Mark lifted himself to the top edge of the couch and gawked at the sight in front of him.

A young adult, roughly Mark's average height, was staring down at the baby blue instruction manual on the steel-blue marble counter, curiosity shrouding his face. Mark first noticed his eyes, since they were somewhat like his, albeit a much more vibrant and vivid grass-green; however, the similarities stopped there. The person had layered and slightly ruffled bleach-blonde hair to go along with his heart-shaped face. He was wearing a dark, burgundy- almost black- jacket with a white hoodie underneath that hugged his slender build, as well as skin-tight black jeans that barely wrinkled around the knee area. He also had a plain, bright red bandana tied at his neck with the two tails sticking out from behind, much like a scarf worn backwards.

Mark quickly scanned the debris on the floor and saw a red and blue electric guitar with an ivory stripe encompassing the entire frame on the edge. He spotted some other clothes strewn around, obscured by the box remnants and an amplifier that lay next to the guitar.

Slightly angered at the mess in his neat home, yet still shocked at the man's appearance, Mark planned ways to confront him. He remembered a small section in the manual he received about a reprogramming mechanism. Much like a cunning cheetah pouncing on a gazelle under the sun soaked stars of the African savannah, Mark would have to sneak behind the man and attempt to "reprogram" him. Unfortunately, Mark barely skimmed the section in his haste, so he decided that the best option was to render the person unconscious, then read for further instructions.

It didn't help matters when the manual was being read by the mystery person.

Mark slid on his back a few inches toward the coffee table and gingerly opened the lower left drawer. He pulled out a small .22 caliber pistol and swiftly rose to his feet. After the man called Arthur Kirkland shifted his posture to where his back faced him, Mark tip-toed over the debris on the floor.

"That's not like me at all! Those idiots." The sudden interruption of the silence almost caused Mark to spring into the air like a released coil. Mark attempted to stay calm and pressed onward. He inched closer with his pistol outstretched towards Arthur. His hand shook, straining to keep a tight grip on the firearm in case it was needed. He neared the stranger until he was a mere two feet away from him. He jerked his arm up and prepared himself to bring the fat end of the weapon towards the unknowing stranger's skull.

Mark had completely disregarded the empty, glass picture frame on the counter, and the air constricted around them. Two pairs of green eyes met with each other from within the glass frame, both of them widening in shock and awe at each other.

Arthur spun around just as Mark lunged towards him. He ran head-first into Arthur's chest like an elephant being chased by a tidal wave. They both grunted in pain on the gravity-assisted descent to the unforgiving floor. Both of them lay beside each other and writhed in pain, trying to lasso air back into their constricted lungs.

"You... You stupid cockeyed... wanker! What the hell are you doing?" the young British man forced out before rolling towards his side.

"No! Who... the hell... a-are you?" Mark shouted. He moaned and clutched his head before curling into a ball as he attempted to ride out the pain.

"Where'd that gun go? Oh God... You even elbowed me!"

"You fucking blew up a box in my house! I'm so sorry for the cold welcome!" Mark shouted sarcastically.

Mark lurched to a sitting position and stared at his lap for a minute. Arthur stretched himself out on the floor and laid there. The two stayed in their positions until Arthur stabbed out the silence.

"Actually, I hate to admit it, but I am sorry. I shouldn't have busted out like that. I had a feeling you were someone else," Arthur said in a lowered tone.

"Well, I know what that's like." Mark grunted in exertion before climbing to his feet. He turned around and shot his small, right hand towards Arthur.

Arthur stared at the hand with his mouth agape before hesitantly locking his hand into Mark's warm one. Mark heaved him to a standing position, and the two faced each other.

"I guess I shouldn't have pulled a gun out on you," Mark stated. "I've had a pretty stressful night, and my flight class is tomorrow afternoon. Now, can I know who you are? I wanna hear it from you."

"I'm England."

"Yeah, I figured you're from there. I mean your name, though," Mark said.

"No, my name is Arthur Kirkland, but I am Great Britain."

Mark paused and reflected on the answer. He tilted his head in confusion. "I-I don't understand. I heard that you're from there the first time. I just want-"

"No," Arthur interrupted in an impatient tone. "That's my name, but I am the country- Great Britain."

Mark glared at the self-proclaimed country with his mouth opened like he had seen a nine-headed dragon. He blinked and mouthed something to himself before wiping his mouth, then began to speak.

"Okay, well, if that's the case, I'm Mark Warner, and I have two brothers and a sister who live in a locked water tower."

"Whom, not who, thank you very much. And do they really?"

"Okay, you shouldn't be criticizing anything with what you're wearing."

"What is wrong with how I dress?" Arthur shot back.

"Nothing, if you wanna look like Sid and Nancy."

Arthur leaned back in surprise and waved his hands in frustration while speaking in a quick, flippant tone. "I won't tolerate being made fun of!"

"Don't finish your sentences in prepositions, honey. It's not good grammar," Mark mimicked.

"Look, i just- Blast it all! Where'd it go?" A look of pained realization and faint panic shadowed Arthur's face.

"Where'd what go?"

"London! Where is it?" Arthur wandered around the room with his head lowered, trying to find his missing object.

"I don't know! What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's my mo- Oh, wait a second! Here it is." Arthur wore a face of joyful relief and grinned as he briskly walked over the red and blue guitar with a stamped union jack. He picked it up from the ground and clutched it towards his chest.

"That would have killed me if it was hurt. I guess it's fine, then. I don't mean to be rude, but do you have something to eat or drink here? It was a long trip."

Mark resisted the temptation to start interrogating the youthful Brit and decided to do something more productive. "Oh, yeah. There's some drinks in the kitchen. I guess you can make something if you want. i just have to call someone that can help me out with this."

"Thank you." Arthur marched with his guitar into the kitchen, leaving Mark to observe the wreckage in front of him. He sighed and raked his hands through his dark brown hair.

"I know who to call," Mark whispered to himself. He yanked the unharmed phone from his pocket and dialed the number to the one person he knew that might understand the situation he was in.

He had to admit it. Against all odds, the old woman down the hall kept up with the times better than he did.

Just as he heard the ringing, he glanced over to the opened instruction manual Arthur had commented on. He looked down on the paper and raised his eyebrow at one of the paragraphs. Like a fine-tuned military marching corp, he started to smell a thin layer of smoke and burnt charcoal permeating from the kitchen. Mark's eyes shot open as he realized the problem.

"Wait, hold up! Don't touch anything! You'll ruin my kitchen," Mark yelled. He leapt towards the enclosed kitchen where he started to see the smoke gathering in a billowing tower.


A/N: You could consider this the true opening to the story. The first two were introductions, and now we can move forward to the actual interaction. Thanks to all the viewers so far, and please don't hesitate to review. Any constructive criticism or suggestions for the characters and/or story are loved. Thank you.