chapter 4
The door behind him suddenly exploded, splinters flying in every possible direction, one burying itself in his arm, drawing blood.
"Who the hell—" he snarled, whirling around in anger. He locked eyes with America's, rage morphing into shock. Had Alfred just smashed the door open? This sudden strength—the damn boy was stealing it from somewhere, clearly, clearly—
The way the splintered door had ripped into his arm, the way his skin had tore upon impact—how could anyone dare to hurt him so? It went beyond that, though. He couldn't allow America to disobey his orders and get away with it, that would set an untimely precedent. Perhaps a lesson was in order—he wrenched a hand around America's neck and slammed the boy into the door frame, using his own weight to keep his colony from escaping.
America's eyes looked wild, with anger or desperation England couldn't tell. It didn't matter though, did it? The brat thought he could go on a power trip and humiliate England in the process. Russia was right, as much as he didn't want to admit, but keeping his colonies in line required a lot more than pure rhetoric. He was done with fancy rhetoric, done with begging Alfred to listen to him, done with choosing his words carefully to avoid offending. He was fucking done.
"Can you not listen to simple directions?" he seethed, "I told you to stay in the damn room!" (Why wasn't America terrified? Why wasn't he afraid?)
England ripped the splinter from his arm and waved it furiously in America's face. "I have had more than enough of your bullshit today—more than enough!"
He buried his fist into America's cheek, once, twice, three times—
England didn't get a chance to duck as America lifted his legs into the air, kicking wildly and catching him on the shin. The hand he'd forced around America's neck slipped, and he shifted backwards to avoid America's fist. He reached down to grab a splintered door piece and wasted no time in slamming it into America's legs as hard as he could. When his colony crumbled to the ground with a yell of pain, he gave a satisfied snort, and raised the stick again, readying for a swing to the stomach, when America—America stood up. America was still able to stand despite being hit in the legs, a hit that should've broken them.
"What the hell is this, England?" America wheezed, wrapping a hand around his mouth to cover his cough. "I don't know what the fuck it is you're so mad about, alright? I offered to take the blame!"
England didn't dignify the question with a reply (because Alfred was an ungrateful little piss in the mud, Alfred had attacked him, it was like the damn prat had known the British Empire was fraying at the edges, had known that it was only his armies that had kept his family together, and fuck, the boy didn't care if he tore their family apart, did he?). He swung for America's stomach, and America danced aside, a determined look in his eyes.
"Listen, can you put the stick down and talk civilly? Look England, I don't know what's gotten into you, but—"
England swung again, and America leaped into the air, avoiding the stick's trajectory.
"Fucking hell, England, would you just stop?"
But England didn't stop, because why should he? Why would he stop when Alfred had ripped a chunk out of his arm with his carelessness? How pathetic would he be if he allowed this to just pass? No, he wasn't stopping until he wiped that smug look off his colony's face, until Alfred apologized for his stupidity, until Alfred learned his place. And so the stick danced about madly in his hands until he finally landed a hit on America's arm. He winced when he heard America yell—this yell was different than before, because this yell was punctuated by the crack of bone.
America fell forward, clutching his arm and letting out a primal scream.
And England stood there, wondering bitterly why putting America in his place didn't make him feel happy, wondering why he'd put in so much effort to teach the boy a lesson, when all it ever ended up being was waves and waves of guilt. Should he comfort Alfred, or—or did the boy deserve this? He was at a crossroads, and remembered—
"There are many ways to rule, Angliya," Russia had said one night over tea, "You can be harsh, you can scare them into submission. You can be kind, you can persuade them to be loyal through your kindness. You can be indirect, you can demonstrate your military power abroad, and they will attribute the power to you, but never feel it themselves. You can be direct, you can demonstrate your military prowess at home, and they will cower at your presence."
Russia paused, letting his speech sink in, and then added, "But you cannot be indecisive, Angliya, that is not the trait of a good leader."
"You are no more than a barbarian," England snapped, "and I see no reason to listen to your diatribes."
"I may be a barbarian, but I am informed. You may be civilized, but you are confused. The choice has to be made, you cannot avoid it forever."
Russia had downed the rest of his tea then, and looked at England impassively. He did not understand how England had grown so large without knowing the basic tenants of leadership, and so he sat there, waiting, waiting...
What would he choose? What could he choose now? He'd already gone too far to be kind, he'd crossed the line long ago, and America would never accept his kindness now. The boy would only view it with a suspicious eye, because he was already labeled in Alfred's mind—he was horrible, disgusting, violent, and any kindness on his part would only be temporary, would only be seen as a tool of manipulation.
He didn't know when he'd lost it, when everything had to be so logical and rational and every step had to be planned like a chess game. And Russia was so good at the damn game, wasn't he? The fucking Soviets had won for nearly three decades in a row, until one of his colonies—Canada? America?—had provided him with a champion, and that had been the British Empire's only successful venture into chess.
It was wrong, but he was so far gone now, what was the point in going back?
"America..." he began, hesitant. He saw something in America's eyes—something that reminded him of Russia at his worst (and perhaps himself too, a voice in his mind echoed). England wondered if he should be terrified, but squashed the thought. The look only appeared momentarily anyway, a fleeting, whimsical existence.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" America managed, a tense anger to his voice as he backed away.
And England shook his head, trying to clear his mind, trying to remember what Russia had said...
(There were so many paths he could take to victory, but which one would he choose, which one would he choose?)
—
"America, you're back? Alfred—" Canada's voice quickly switched to alarm, "What happened? You're—are you alright?"
"Hey, Matt!" America greeted with false cheer, "I'm—I'm fine! Just had a really long morning. Seriously, this damn place is like a bad luck charm or something. Makes all the wrong shit happen at the wrong time. Anyways, I need to take a shower, clean up a bit, so I guess I'll talk to you later—"
Canada saw through him, as he always did, and reached for America's shoulders, stopping him. "Alfred! Seriously, what happened to your arm?"
"England—" America muttered after a moment's hesitance, "Fuck, the guy's crazy. I mean, I just don't get it. What the fuck is he so angry about now? I tried to be comforting, didn't I? But he insists that I'm his colony or some shit like that, and then he gets mad every time I try to tell him he's wrong. He's so fucked up in the head I can't even comprehend—it's like he's taking drugs or he got some brain altering surgery or something."
Canada grasped America's limp arm in his hands and mumbled, "England did this? England, my god, he—" There was a hitch in Canada's voice, whether it was of anger or pity America couldn't tell.
"I...hey Canada, you shouldn't worry you know, it's gonna heal soon. I'd give it a couple hours, tops, and my arm'll be back to normal, so it's not that big of a deal."
Canada shook his head, bile rising in his throat, a symbol of his disgust. "My god, Alfred, this is—England is disgusting. I can't believe—actually, you know what, I can. England is a bastard, and I wish I could've—I wish he were dead." Canada seemed to freeze when he pronounced the last words, as though he couldn't believe he'd said them aloud.
America hesitated for a moment, confusion lining his face, and finally murmured, "Matt, don't say that, you're scaring me. I mean, between the two of us, you're supposed to be the sane one!" He chuckled bitterly then, placing his good arm around Canada's shoulders.
"I'm the one who's...well, I think I told you this before, but sometimes I get this sort of, this flash of something. I remember I got it a lot when Russia would come around, and after 9/11 too. And just a moment ago, I felt it come back again. Like I just had to...to hurt something to make myself feel better, to avenge my pain, and I almost couldn't stop myself. I know I promised you I'd try harder to stop myself from doing that again, but I just—England is—he's supposed to be a really close ally, you know? And you don't just attack people you're close to."
It was worse, America decided, worse because England wasn't just a close ally the way Canada or Japan or Germany were. England was so much more, and yet he...
(There was something horribly wrong with the picture, and he wasn't sure what could be painted over to fix it.)
"Alfred," Canada began, letting his fingers cradle America's broken arm, "it's okay, it's fine. Let's just—let's just get some ice, alright? Your arm's not looking so good."
But America rambled on, ignoring Canada, "I'm fine. Don't worry about me, like I said, it'll heal soon. My anger's just—it's symbolic, you know? You don't attack your allies like that. You just don't—"
Canada didn't seem to hear him, and was already dragging him towards the kitchen (an entirely unfamiliar kitchen, America decided), where their ice was kept. His brother removed a large chunk of it from the freezer, found a cloth and wrapped the ice pack around America's arm.
"So what exactly were you doing out there anyway?" Canada asked as he finished his handiwork, "I mean, what led to all of that?"
"Oh," America muttered, looking weary, "I don't get any of it, but I remember going with England into the meeting room, and then there was this mini storm, and he got blown out of the room. He came back and he was utterly crazy. He got into this messy argument with Russia because Russia's accusing me of breaking into the—the Soviet Union's general meeting area with Japan's suspicious-looking machine. So England insists on taking the blame for me and on being utterly pissed at me for having to do so—I even told him not to, but does he listen? No!"
"Wait, Japan—Japan's machine? Was he implanting something in their meeting area or—"
"No, no, of course not!" America shook his head vigorously, and continued, "Like I said, there was a semi-blizzard, right? So Japan and England both got blown somewhere after it was over, and Japan was carrying this machine with him, and the remnants of it were left in the room, which I just happened to be in. Oh—that reminds me, I probably should've checked up on Japan, I got totally distracted with England, damn. And I should return his machine to him too..."
America sighed and pulled out the mess of wires from his jacket pocket. It actually looked rather...well, awesome, if it weren't for the amount of suspicion it had indirectly raised. America reached for the center of the mess, where there looked to be a manual.
"Hey Matt, look! It's actually not as broken as I thought. Most of the wires look intact, except for this one, and based on the labels on the wires it probably goes here."
Canada watched as America reattached multiple wires to the circuit board, and then reached for a switch. Nothing happened. "Damn. Maybe I missed this one—"
The screen lit to life.
"Fuck yeah, it worked on the second try!" America exclaimed, suddenly excited. In his excitement, the ice pack fell off his arm. Canada scowled and retrieved it from the floor, placing it back on America's arm.
"And just what in the world is this supposed to do?" Canada finally asked, incredulous.
"Um," America shrugged. "I wouldn't know, but maybe we can find out?"
He glanced at the attached LCD screen:
—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—
SpaceTimeTM (a teleportation device) v0.1.1
(warnings) very much in beta, do not test on random people
(a) open up a log session
(b) connect to world wide web
(c) help
—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—
"Damn," America mumbled, "Damn it to hell and back—look at this!"
Canada leaned in to read the text, and his eyes widened. "A...teleportation device? Wait, is it even possible to build something like this?"
America shrugged. Well, technically it was probably not possible, but he definitely could think of ways that it might be doable. For instance, Japan's machine could rip a hole at one end of the atmosphere, allow the subject to enter into a temporary holding zone, rip a hole at destination, and transfer the subject from the holding zone to the destination. Then there was the possibility of copying and reconstructing the subject at the destination...
And if this machine really did what it advertised, it could explain a lot.
"Hey, Canada, we were in Antarctica a few moments ago, remember? And now we're in some other place—somewhere in the general vicinity of...Russia, I'm guessing? That's why I thought we were in the meeting room when we weren't—we were somehow teleported, which means Japan's thing actually worked!"
Canada stared at America. "Wait, Alfred, what are you talking about? Since when were we ever in Antarctica at all? We were here for a world conference at Russia's!"
America gaped. "Are you serious? Wait." He stared at Canada, remembering how Russia had called them capitalist pigs and England had in turn called Ivan a communist bastard and how Japan's machine was a SpaceTime teleporter. "So let me get this straight—I'm still England's colony? And Russia's still a damn commie? What about you then—what're you?"
"I'm his colony too...what are you getting at, Alfred?"
"Can I throw a far-fetched theory at you?"
"Maybe?"
"See this? It calls itself a SpaceTime teleporter, which means there's the possibility I moved through time as well as space!"
"Alfred—you're saying you got teleported through—but how can you be sure this isn't just some fantasy? How can you be sure that the machine even works as advertised? Anyone can slap a name onto this, but that doesn't mean it actually does anything."
"Well, I'm not absolutely sure, but how else do you explain the differences? I mean, I'm not a British colony as far as I remember, haven't been since 1776. Russia hasn't been communist for a couple decades as well. And I was also in Antarctica just a few minutes ago..."
Canada shook his head, disbelieving. Time travel? Antarctica? Was Alfred crazy? "Maybe we should look at this thing more. Try that help thing on the screen."
America flicked the switch closest to the "help" selection, and the screen flashed again.
—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—
(help)
This section is still under construction.
—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—
"Informative," America muttered sarcastically. Trust Japan to pay homage to a relic from the '90s. All it was missing was an animated gif...
"Alfred, if you did travel through time—what year are you from? I mean, it's 2010 here and—"
America made a face. "That's the part I'm confused about—it's 2010 as far as I remember too! But we were in Antarctica just an hour ago, and I am most certainly not a British colony! God, what happened from 1776 onwards?"
Canada stared at him in disbelief. "You...ahh, I thought you hated talking about this...you...in 1787, you surrendered, remember? Then...then England came back and he was so angry, and, well..."
America met his brother's look of disbelief. "You know, Matt, this is starting to sound more and more like a fantasy story...I mean..." He glanced down at Japan's machine, eyes roaming over the name, ideas floating through his brain. Spacetime meant that the machine had entered the fourth dimension, but was it possible that it had penetrated some even higher dimension? America remembered joking to Japan once about parallel universes...
("See Japan, you could start with a single universe, and any time a decision is made, a copy of the world is made, one for each different choice. And then—"
"Are you running your latest movie idea by me?"
"No, no, of course not! This one is for a video game!"
"Indeed."
"Right, right! But you could also start with a finite number of universes, with each of them being allowed to evolve independently of the others. Maybe in some of these worlds human life doesn't even start!"
"And we don't exist?"
"Well, maybe we would exist, but not as humans! We'd be whatever other species that happen to form nations. You know, I wonder if we exist in ant form too—like maybe those monstrous ant colonies have the concept of nationality too, and there's ant versions of us. That'd be so cool, Japan!"
Japan sighed.
"What, what? You don't like my idea?"
"We're eating, America. And talking about ants makes me think of giant parasites that lay eggs in—"
"Eww, Japan! I wasn't talking about those types of bugs! Geez, you just had to bring that up, didn't you? Crap, Japan, how the hell am I supposed to eat the salmon roe now? They all look like parasitic eggs!" America made a retching noise and shoved the roe in Japan's direction.
Japan shoved it back. "Let's just agree not to talk about ant nations anymore."
America nodded sagely. Then he suddenly grinned. "You wanna talk about cockroach nations instead?")
—
America looked at Canada, hesitating. "Do you think—do you think it's possible that I got teleported into a different strand of reality?"
"What?"
"Like, you know, you've heard of the theory where every decision we make creates a parallel universe, right? So basically there'd be multiple universes, each just a different branch of the decision tree, and our point of divergence would be at my revolution. So maybe I got teleported into this parallel world where the differences start when I lost...well, this is totally crazy, isn't it?"
Canada looked skeptical. "Well...I've read about it in books...but really, it sounds fictional."
"Yeah well, there isn't a better explanation, is there? Especially not one that takes Japan's thing into account." America stared at the device resting snugly in his arms.
"Alright, so let's assume this machine did cause you to...teleport...here. Then you should be able to use it to get back as well, right?" And hopefully bring the other Alfred—the real Alfred—back safely...wait, I'm not actually subscribing to his crazy theory, am I?
"Only if I can get it to work..." America stared at it warily. "I mean, maybe we should contact Japan, ask him to at least read the manual to us or something."
"But how are you going to explain why you have this manual in Japanese you can't read?" Canada countered. "Besides, what if you're wrong? What if it is something else? What if you lost your memory or—"
"But that theory is even crazier, Matt!" America protested, waving his good arm around dynamically, "If I lost my memory, then clearly someone planted memories in me, because I still remember stuff. It's just not the right stuff, according to you and England and everyone else. Then that means...well, who the hell implanted memories in my mind? Someone would have to kidnap me and perform brain surgery on me and—well, how is this any less far-fetched?"
Canada snorted. "I'm very close to believing you just have an overactive imagination, or that this is some elaborate practical joke. That's how insane you sound right now, Alfred."
"I could say the same thing for all of you!" America grumbled. "I mean, I come out of this damn room, and England and Russia are tearing at each other's throats in a matter of seconds! Then Russia lets it slip casually that I'm a British colony—and England confirms it, like it was obvious. It just feels like some bastard went ahead and planned out an early April Fool's, and if it weren't for this damn machine..."
America sighed, looking down at the aforementioned machine. Half of him wanted to punch the damn thing that had turned him into a stranger in a strange land, but that would get him nowhere. Perhaps he should try option (b) for kicks and giggles, even though he was sure it would also end in an 'under construction' fiasco...
He was not prepared for it to actually work and connect to the internet. Or at least, some version of the internet that he wasn't familiar with at all, because apparently Youtube didn't exist, and neither did Google, and...
"Hey Canada, just out of curiosity, what do you guys use as far as search engines go?"
"Search engines? You mean like Optical or Baidu?"
"Baidu? Are you shitting me? Oh man," America shook his head in amusement, "Baidu! Alright, so I'm guessing the British Empire didn't catch on well to this whole internet thing, did it?"
"What? Of course we did—I mean, Optical has more than three-quarters of the search engine share worldwide! Baidu is mostly used for...well, it's used in British North America as a form of protest, which is kind of ironic because Baidu itself censors like crazy in mainland China. But out here it doesn't do any of that, so the malcontents use it. They're protesting against Optical tweaking the results to suit the British government's purposes, which they say is just functional censorship."
"Damn," America mumbled, "A form of protest, huh?" He shook his head, tapping the url into the screen. The site that came up seemed like a typical search engine, but the logo was an image of the Union Jack ripped to shreds. Protest indeed.
But now that he could connect to the internet, could the same principles be applied to interlink parallel worlds? America looked back and forth between Canada and the machine, trying to think. If he could somehow reroute the wireless router to redirect to addresses from his universe, then he'd be able to use his world's internet, wouldn't he? All he had to do was feed the router data into the teleportation port, which would then (hopefully) be transmitted to a corresponding router in his world, which would then request data from his world's network, which would then send it back through the teleportation port...
Well, it all made sense in theory, but in practice?
America reached for the wires, trying to decide how to connect them properly to recreate what was in his mind's eye.
He tried to keep himself from losing concentration by thinking of the email he would compose to Japan once everything was in working order. First he'd give an excited rant of his newest discoveries, and then—oh yes, he would make Japan nullify his debt for access to the inter-universe communication system! It was the perfect way to solve his latest debt-related woes. And once Japan was taken care of, he just had to think of something else to appease China...
It was so, so perfect!
Unfortunately, the moment was ruined when his stomach rumbled. "Maaatt, I'm hungry."
Canada groaned.
—
The refrigerator door was open. Canada was trying to hold his breath to avoid the smell of England's cooking, which was neatly lined up in plastic containers, color-coded by day. It was supposed to be the food supply of everyone for the next week. Not that, of course, anyone would actually touch them.
In fact, on the day of their arrival, Hong Kong had taken one whiff of the contents and announced, "There is contaminated stinky tofu in the upper compartment of the fridge. I suggest that we tape it off and label it as a nuclear waste zone." India had giggled in amusement, and the two of them took to the stove with great speed. In an hour's time, they'd whipped up a separate supply, their real supply of food, which was not-so-neatly strewn in the compartment below England's. Canada grabbed two boxes of their cooking efforts and motioned for America to join him.
"Not England's food, huh?" America asked, grinning.
Canada let out a bitter laugh. "Very far from English indeed."
They ate in silence for a while, avoiding each other's gaze. Eventually America broke the silence with a confession of sorts: "Matt, I...uh, I almost forgot to tell you, but England's gonna be pretty mad at you when he comes back. I...I suppose it was sort of my fault. An accident, of sorts."
"What are you talking about?"
"Well, if you're going along with my alternate realities theory, then in my world, first of all, neither of us are his colonies anymore. And in recent months you called England my lapdog. To his face. You were rubbing it in his face over some poll or something..."
"Wait, what?"
"And so yeah, he was pretty pissed and ranted at me for a whole damn week, like some overzealous drama queen. It didn't help that France and Germany just had to agree with you. And so, well, today, I kinda accidentally reminded the England in your world of that, and when he didn't know what I was talking about, I...uh...I told him."
"Germany and France?" Canada asked, incredulous, "The two of them actually agreed on something?"
"Yeah, well, they pretty much agree on everything—oh, well, maybe not here, huh?" America sighed, recalling how France and Germany had—in unison—jeered that England was a "poor, poor American fool." Why they insisted on constantly riling England up America just didn't get. Or actually, he supposed he did—they wanted England to go back to Europe, to stop with the Euroscepticism, to go along with their policies and stop scowling all the damn time.
("Angleterre, it would do you some good to stop showing Etats-Unis off to us, we're not impressed that he's your ally, and we're not intimidated by you because of him. You're in Europe, act European for once, would you? Stop acting like an offshoot of your former colony."
Germany nodded his assent; he was always the less vocal of the duo.
"I'm not showing him off—for heaven's sake, he's not even—"
"I beg to differ, England," Germany began, "Every time the Europäische Union enacts some policy that is disagreeable for you, you quickly turn to reevaluating your relationship with America, as if you're pushing the idea that you have other alliances, better alliances in our faces. We are not blind, England."
"Also," France cut in, "the two of us are most tired of being your marriage counselors."
"Who the fuck said I needed marriage counseling?")
"Alfred..."
"Um," America gave Canada a sheepish grin. "Well, yeah. Sorry?"
"So you told him that I said that he was your...uh..."
"Right. But I didn't know! I thought he'd just temporarily forgotten or something! I mean, wow, it's gotta suck being his colony, especially since he doesn't seem chill at all."
"No," Canada grumbled, "he's about as far from 'chill' as you can get."
"So, uh, if you want, you can blame it on me, alright? I mean, just say I was lying or something, to get him off your case. It's kinda the truth too, right?" And if England, if this England tried to attack him again, he was going to fight back for real. He'd been hesitant before, because he was afraid of hurting England, but this England, this one could go to hell for all that he cared.
"Well, he won't believe me, and..."
"What if I tell him? That, you know, I was lying 'cause I was angry at you and wanted to get you in trouble or something like that?"
"Forget it, Alfred," Canada muttered, wringing his hands. If America told the truth, there was no doubt that England would find some excuse to attack him again, and Canada was not going to allow that to happen. Even if America was crazy fast at healing—two hours after the incident and his arm had renewed itself entirely, cracks fused together and torn ligaments healed over, Canada didn't want to take the chance. "I'll figure it out when he comes back. Half the times he doesn't even remember I exist in the first place, except for when he needs me to spy on Russia or some crap like that."
America grinned brightly, much too brightly. "Yeah, so why don't you make your existence memorable for him? You know, plan a rebellion or something."
"Yeah, as if it's that easy to just rebel."
"Hey, I'm sure it's not so bad. You know a good chunk of England's military secrets, right? So you should start something in your lands first, like a riot of sorts. Then you should send your boats along to England's coast, do a nice little one-eighty and stage an invasion of the home islands. He'll be so fucking shocked he won't know what's coming to him and—"
"You're insane. What makes you think I have the resources to invade England?"
"Are you kidding me? Don't you have oil sands all over the place? You could tell England, 'Hey, look, fuck you, you're not getting any oil from me.' and he'd pretty much have to acquiesce to all of your demands. Not that—well—" He stopped, feeling slightly uncomfortable with his own set of advice. He wouldn't normally be telling Canada all this, certainly not if he were back in his own world, where he depended very much on oil from up north and where it was simply best not to give anyone any ideas...
"Yes, then he sends a bunch of British bastards to my place to kill me, no, I don't think this is a viable plan at all, Alfred!"
"Aw, come on! There's plenty of ways you could kick him out of your land. I could help, for one, I've got experience in this one! See, the first thing we could do is—"
"You lost your little revolt!"
"In your world, sure, but not in mine!" America grinned cheekily, and he looked at Canada with amusement. "The two of us together would be unstoppable! We could build the North American Fortress of Doom and send England packing!" As America spoke, he lifted the naan he'd been munching on into the air, and the curry he'd dipped it in flew everywhere, large globs of it landing in Canada's hair.
"America!" Canada yelled, fingering the sticky mess on his head. But then America was laughing, and it was uproarious, infectious, and Canada felt his annoyance dissipate into muffled chuckling. His brother was far too happy for someone whose arm had just been broken...
—
Canada still could not believe America had suggested it. Spy on England? Was his brother crazy? This could not end well, and he was an idiot for even considering. "If we're gonna fight him, then we need to know the enemy," his brother had said. Canada's protests that they already knew England were ignored, and now he found himself crouching under a windowsill, straining his ears to hear the commotion in the meeting room. America was sitting next to him, studying Japan's machine.
Russia's light drawl floated through the walls. "I'd like England to explain exactly why both he and Amerika were in our general meeting area. Let's let him have the stage, shall we?"
"If I'm on trial, who exactly is serving as the jury?" England.
Canada wondered why he could hear Russia smiling. "Why, everyone here, of course."
"What?" England snapped, "A quarter of everyone here are your colonies. Do you really think I'm going to allow such a biased vote to pass?"
"If you'd wanted to, you could've brought your colonies as well, Angliya. Why you chose not to is hardly my fault."
Canada glanced at America, who had raised an eyebrow to denote his confusion. "Hey Canada," America whispered, "what happens if England loses the trial?"
"No idea," Canada whispered back, "But he's got a lot of allies in that room too, so he might be able to weather a quarter of the vote going to Russia."
They strained their ears again as England began his speech. "First of all, I was never in your meeting area. I hope everyone here understands that I would never lower myself to that level. As for America, I do think Russia knows best. After all, Russia was the one who offered him drugs, drugs that blurred his memory and sense of time and place. So are we to blame the dealer or the victim? I think it's only right—"
"Angliya, where is your evidence that I've sold Amerika anything?"
"Evidence?" England gave a sharp laugh. "You need only take one look at America to see that he's lost his mind. The evidence is quite clear in itself. If you need me to bring him here—"
"So we are just supposed to take your word for it? How do you know that the dealer wasn't someone else?"
"I seem to recall that you were the one who proclaimed that America would much prefer to spend time with the Soviet Union than with me. If the dealer wasn't you, then why would you make such a statement, as if you could read his mind?"
Russia made a noise of disgust. "That is not enough evidence that I've sold Amerika anything."
"Then you also do not have enough evidence to accuse America of doing anything in your meeting area."
The two of them traded insults for a while, which Canada tuned out. Instead, he thought back to America's earlier question. What would happen if England lost the trial? He had a feeling England would end up paying large amounts of money to Russia, money that he'd probably funnel in through taxing America. Except this was actually the most ideal situation—what if England had to do something other than pay? What if—
"Let's count the votes, shall we?"
"Shit, that was a fast trial." America mumbled, eyebrows furrowing.
"Let's see, I count 14 votes that find you to be at fault and 13 that don't. Would you like to confirm, Angliya?" There was a light tilt to Russia's voice.
"These 14 votes—exactly who the hell are they—"
"Now, you should know that these votes are supposed to remain anonymous. We wouldn't want you to intimidate them to vote one way or another, would we?" Canada thought he heard Russia chuckle.
"Wait, did England just lose? By one vote?" America tugged insistently on Canada's sleeve, pulling him up.
And once again, Canada wasn't sure what was happening anymore, because he suddenly found himself being dragged by America, who was muttering something about "fucking former soviet states" and "Russia doesn't get to kick England's ass" and "that's our job". And of course, Canada was even more mortified when he discovered that they were standing two feet from the entrance to the meeting area.
"Damnit, Alfred, what are you doing? You know we can't go in there—"
America wasn't listening to him, and two strides later, the entrance door was open and everyone was staring at them.
"You've overlooked two members of the jury," America announced, gesturing to himself and his brother. Canada thought the grin on America's face was nothing short of madness, and that the look of horror England's face matched it.
America held out his hand insistently in front of Switzerland, who had been ripping out sheets of notebook paper for everyone to scribble their votes on. "So," America continued, as if nothing had happened, "give me and my brother here some ballots."
England was right about the drugs, Canada decided. America was utterly and entirely mad, parallel universes be damned.
notes:
- Canada has the world's 2nd largest oil reserves, and the US imports more of its oil from Canada than any other nation.
- The USSR seriously dominated chess—from 1948 to 1972, then a Bobby Fischer break of three years, and it was back to Soviet dominance again until the USSR ended.
- The UK is one of the most Eurosceptic countries, along with Latvia and Hungary.
All reviews are greatly appreciated! This one was really hard to write. :(