A week had passed since the end of the last World Meeting. America sat in her office chair, "Highway to Hell" blaring out of an old radio, papers askew.
She put her head down on the desk.
Paperwork sucks, she thought. Stupid boss. It's way too freakin' hot to do anything, doesn't he know that?
The incident with Britain kept replaying in her mind like an old broken record. America had confronted Britain with not a shred of real evidence—just memories and shadows illuminated by bursts of fireworks. She had seen him…hadn't she? Or was it just the booze she saw?
And why, just why, did she care so much if he was there, anyway?
Maybe it was because she still remembered how she had brought him down that day. Perhaps, just perhaps, Britain had shown up to try and re-inflict painful memories. It was his way of getting even with what she had caused him, back in the eighteenth century.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a vibrating iPhone (officially contraband while doing paperwork, according to her boss). A text bubble lit up the screen.
Ciao America! Prussia and France and Spain and I are going out tonight and they want to know if you want to come! –Italy (the northern)
America perked one eyebrow. The Bad Touch Trio…and Italy? This couldn't be good.
Who arranged this, dude? She texted back.
Big Brother France.
Barf. No way. Was that guy still after her? America's fingers hovered over the screen. If she went out with them, they would undoubtedly end up on a car chase and in jail, or at least get one of those damned expensive tickets.
On the other hand…
An evil grin spread over her face.
I'm in. That was enough.
Yay! He says to be at his hotel at seven.
America glanced at the time. 6:30. She pranced to her room and threw on a pair of short-shorts and a Lynryd Skynyrd t-shirt, brushed out her hair, and splashed water on her face.
Her Ford pickup was waiting outside on the gravel driveway. She grabbed the keys from her desk drawer and flew out the door, hopped in, and soon was flying down the highway.
The wind cooled her face and whipped her hair everywhere. She stared at the flat fields of soybeans rolling by and the endless row of telephone poles, wondering what was exactly in store for her.
She glanced out the window, and all her thoughts froze.
A white scarf flashed by in seemingly slow motion. A long, brown coat.
Blood.
America pulled over to the side of the road, absentmindedly grabbing a bottle of water from the passenger compartment and floating out the car to the figure lying in the ditch.
She knelt down and turned the man over. Blood flowed over her hands, sticky on the rough cloth.
Russia's glazed, almost-white eyes focused on her, barely conscious.
"Car hit….you've come to…finish me off, yes?" Then his head lulled and his pale eyelids closed shut.
A/N: Cliffhanger. Sorta. Review? New chapter out soon.
