France walked along the smoking remains of a Paris street, stony faced, which he knew was unusual for him. But he profoundly did not care what was in character for him. His country, his people, had all gone to hell, and he felt that if he showed any outward emotion he would collapse in on himself. So he remained resolute.
The war had been terrible. He had won (a surprise in itself) but it had destroyed him. Scars already ran down the length of his back and chest that would never fade.
Piles of rubble smoked, some collapsing for some reason or another. He sighed deeply, but looking nowhere in particular. This street had been beautiful once. Trees had lined the streets, the air was fresh, the people happy. Now the trees were gone, the air reeked of death and destruction, and there were hardly any people to be seen.
His foot kicked something. He would've ignored it, assuming it was a rock, but it didn't at all feel like a rock. So France stopped and stooped down to pick it up. It was a child's doll, coated in a fine layer of ash, but mostly intact. For some reason, this was what got him. His carefully placed stoicism broke, and he put a hand to his face as he wept. He felt as though he'd lost it all in that moment. Nothing was left of him.
A shout from another direction caught his attention. He looked over, stunned to see two men lifting rocks from the rubble. They loaded it into a truck, and then started again with more. They did this until the pile was clear, and then they began on another pile. France stared unashamedly as they worked. Eventually, the truck drove away, and a cement truck came in its place. It mixed, then began filling in the holes in the sidewalk the men had cleared away.
They were rebuilding.
For some unknown reason, this astounded him. Already, they were rebuilding the sidewalk. He looked back at the ashy doll in his hands. It was broken in some places, but sewing could fix that. The ash could be cleaned off with some work. It wouldn't be new again, but it would be fine. It suddenly dawned on him what a great metaphor that was for him.
A little (or a lot) broken, but fixable with some work. And for the first time in months, years maybe, France smiled. It would be okay. Eventually.
...
It was a lovely June day when it first happened. America had been pulling himself back together quite nicely. The states – sorry, districts – were coming together over the ravaged landscape, and the tensions brought in by the rebels had eased over. It was finally going well. Or so he thought.
He was walking down the hall towards Mr. Ashworth's office when he passed by a mirror. America stopped in front of it to make sure he looked presentable (Mr. Ashworth would have a fit if he didn't look absolutely perfect) when he noticed it.
His eyes. They weren't his.
The nation staggered back, turning away from the mirror. He didn't want to believe what he had just seen. He looked again, because there had to be some sort of misundersta…no. No, no, no, no! It wasn't right! It wasn't right at all!
His eyes were a beautiful baby blue. The color of the sky. It had been that way ever since he was born, before he was a nation, before anyone had even found him. And now, they were red. A beautiful, sparkling crimson, but a sinister color altogether. It was wrong. It was fucking wrong!
Later that day, a servant was sent by Mr. Ashworth to find Alfred, as he had ditched the meeting that was set. It didn't take long for the man to find him, sobbing hysterically not even twenty feet away from the office. He couldn't be calmed down, and they were forced to sedate him.
And all America could think was a single thought: red.