Chapter Three – America: Destroying my Best Friend
A/N: XD Yeah, I'm slow…I should have written the whole story before posting. Now you guys have to suffer through my procrastination. My apologies!
A/N2: The first half has French, but by the end I got lazy…besides, I can't have half my story's dialogue in another language…think of how long the translation notes would be!
A/N3: You'll notice that I spell "Canadian" "Canadien". This is because the latter is the French way of spelling it…and since we're dealing with the people of New France…well…the rest is obvious.
A/N4: When the farmers refer to America in French they use "vous" and the relevant conjugations HOWEVER if, in your story, you have Canada or France speaking French to a nation they are well acquainted with they will use "tu" and its conjugations. This is because "tu" is used for those you know and "vous" is used for those you don't know.
America grumbled as he felt himself repeatedly being prodded by something hard and slightly cylinder. He shot his eyes open to stare down the perpetrators. They were a bunch of scruffy looking kids wearing tattered breaches and dull, tanned shirts. One had an old farm hat on. They ran away as America stood, snatching the tree branch they'd been poking him with. He raised an eyebrow as they shouted obscenities at him in a rather familiar language.
"Were those kids speaking French?"
Alfred rubbed the back of his head checking out the scenery. It looked like some medieval village with wooden huts and small pockets of fertile farmland. The American blinked and wandered off to the nearest group of people.
They were ladies with long, dark brown skirts, their shoulders covered with a fur shawl. America nodded, thinking them to be rather brave wearing such things in the snow. Normally he'd be dressed head-to-toe in multiple layers of clothing with a hoodie and heavy winter jacket. He just couldn't understand how Alaska and Minnesota could run around outside in the cold in shorts or a t-shirt.
"Um, excuse me ladies?" America smiled and waved his hands, catching their attention, "Is there an information booth around here or something 'cause I'm totally lost. It's incredibly awkward having to ask, heroes normally know everything and I am a hero but, I don't recognize this place right off the bat so if you could help me out here…"
The American blinked as the four women, one with her hair done up in a braided bun, chatted in that same language.
As they continued to speak rapidly with a hint of nervousness in their speech America glanced around him. It was definitely French he was hearing. He didn't know the language all that well but did pick up on little words he'd heard France and Canada say before; words like "oui" and "qu'est-ce qui c'est" and "pour que". From this he surmised that he must be in either France or Quebec, or maybe that other province…what was it called again? New Brunswick?
Finally, a gentleman who had joined the ladies' conversation approached him. Alfred had been too busy trying to narrow down his options on his location to notice some of the farmer men gather nearby.
The farmer, with a rusty black beard, pointed to America with the hand not holding a pitchfork, "Avez-vous un Anglais?"
America had heard a word very similar to that one before. Angleterre was what France sometimes called England. America shook his head and placed a hand on his chest suggesting he would refer to himself, "No, no, no. Me…American."
This revelation caused much anxious chatter amongst the present population who all seemed rather angry and fearful all at once.
"American!" The farmer was rather alarmed, "C'est un criminal! Enfermez lui!"
"Wait, wait!" America shrieked as he was jumped on by greasy looking men. "What's going on here! I demand to see my lawyer!"
The Yankee was roughly tossed onto a wooden carriage being pulled by two chestnut brown horses. The two men who jumped him, and by now had bound him with leather rope, accompanied him along with the farmer who screamed at him.
America glared hard at them, "At least tell me where the hell I am and where I'm going! You might also want to point out the nearest American Consulate so I can file a complaint!"
The three men looked at each other and shrugged. Realizing they couldn't understand, America drew on the little French he knew.
"Qu'est-ce c'est am je?"
The Frenchmen stared at him blankly before erupting into laughter. America growled and blushed. His French had clearly failed him.
Ignoring the boisterous men he looked behind him at the landscape. Beside the bumpy dirt road was a large patch of grass that travelled horizontally for miles. Several metres away began a thick, dark forest. He saw a patch of smoke emanating from an area in the woods – most likely from a cabin out there.
)()()()()(
The carriage pulled up to a large stone wall lite up with fire torches. Inside the wall, people were much livelier than the villagers but there was still an air of panic…especially when they saw Alfred.
Continuing down the large cobble path they stopped in front of a large stone building, parking behind a covered cariole.
America gazed at the building starting at street-point, moving up to the highest floor. He was interrupted by a yank on his bomber jacket as the farmer pulled him off the cart and dragged him inside.
Entering, America immediately realized this was a prison. He could not believe these people were throwing him in jail; and for what? He decided he'd explain his story to a major news network or write a book about it. That would teach these people to never mess with America again!
The jailer didn't say much but seemed to all too happy to comply with the villagers wishes after he was informed of Alfred's nationality.
Landing on the cold floor he looked up to see a few pale, sunken faces and a couple of Indians, or Native Americans as they preferred to be called now.
"So," Alfred sat up, dusting off his jacket and pants, "Why'd they throw you guys in the slammer? I was tossed in for being an unexpected tourist."
The men exchanged glances unsure of what to say.
It was all too much for the American as he screamed, "Doesn't anyone speak English in this damn country!"
"A damned colony it is," an old man in his sixties with a white beard and straw hat replied, "we all speak English in here. That's why we're here. They don't trust us."
America frowned, "Why not?"
"Why should they?" Another, younger man responded, "We are trying to take this land."
Alfred was now confused, "Why?"
"Because!" a third man sputtered, "Those Frenchmen are a threat and disease! Those horrible Catholic Canadiens will take over this whole continent if-"
"Hold up!" America jumped up, "Wait…Canadiens? Are we in Canada?" He'd already guessed the answer. As he had travelled the scenery the things about colonial life had started creeping up on him. Now it had all been confirmed.
The man nodded, "Of course! Right now we're in Ville de Quebec."
America thought for a moment before it dawned on him, "Oh! Quebec City! Dude! This is awesome! I've like…time-travelled or something!"
The five white men and two Natives stared at him awkwardly as he continued rolling out his thoughts verbally, "I should totally find Canada! I can scare the crap outta him by telling him we get married and stuff! He'll freak! Oh! Oh! And then I can invent everything cool we've ever had right away! Canada can't wave his stupid Alexander Graham Bell telephone in my face because I'll have invented it first! Oh and to really piss him off I'll event hockey too! This is gunna be great!"
America continued to grin until he noticed the sour look on his company's face "Is something the matter, guys?"
Aside feeling awed by this futuristic looking person they were rather annoyed and disappointed by his attitude towards the situation.
"What is so joyous about this?" The first man spoke, "You act as though this colony is a friend."
America could only draw a heartbroken frown as the old man continued to scold him, "Canada is our enemy and needs to be destroyed! His existence is a threat to our Protestant American expansion! They should be forced to leave and that little French brat should be burned at the stake."
America breathed in slowly as he came to the full realization of where he was. He wasn't sure of the exact date but it was definitely the War of the French and Indians or, as Canada called it, the Seven Years War. He shuffled his feet embarrassed to think that he himself once thought so lowly of the neighbouring nation he'd now come to like –even love, and admire.
But wait! He'd gone back in time through the mist! Maybe he could change their fates! If he tried to reason with Canada and make a peace treaty then maybe the two could end the war before it started. This time he'd protect Canada, not hurt him.
"Now listen," The second man, a New Jersey printer with jet black hair started, "I don't plan on staying in this damn jail forever. We need to bust out of here and report back to our British colonies."
America shuddered lightly, recalling the days when he lived under England's rule. He hardly ever thought of it anymore but the present situation made him reflect on it more than he would've liked to. He remembered the toy soldiers England had handcrafted for him, the European books that bored America to no end, the days when they'd playfully chase each other before settling down for a midday snack…
"…and after we've successfully infiltrated the Marquis' house we'll find that despicable child and make waste of him."
Alfred quickly looked up, snapping himself out of his daydream, "Wait, what are you doing?"
The third man, who had a distinctly southern accent, one that could only be found in South Carolina, groaned and rolled his eyes, "Weren't you listening? We're going to spring ourselves from the jail, find our soldiers, report to them about the defense of the city, then make haste in returning to destroy their colony."
Before America could protest the fourth, a simple fisherman from Massachusetts, asked, "Where are you from anyway?"
"New York." A Native American answered, staring into Alfred eyes, piercing his soul.
The blond-haired nation froze. The Native Americans had always been intimidating to him. He hated to admit it but…they kind of scared him. Not wanting to challenge the robust, tanned man he nodded.
The fifth white American colonist interrupted the silence, "How exactly are we going to break out?"
"Easy!" The printer responded, "We cause a commotion. Make the jailer come over here and try to beat us. When he does…BAM we grab the key and get out of here."
"Do you really think that's going to work?" Alfred asked. If it were up to him he'd call Japan and have him make a tiny robot that turns into a giant robot at the click of a button and just bust out through the roof. Of course, being the hero he was he didn't need anyone's help, he could just bend the bars and walk out…but he'd let these guys try their idea. He didn't want to isolate himself any more than he already had.
)()()()()(
A cool breeze brushed past the bars on the window of the jail cell filling the room with a hanging chill. America rubbed his hands together, still neatly placed inside his leather gloves, for warmth. He was feeling the night air all over his body and it made him shiver. He could barely comprehend what the other men felt, all of whom were dressed lightly in comparison. Especially the Natives, who were in their traditional garments.
When the jailer came to feed them the American colonist nodded to each other to signal the start of their plan. Two men would grab the jailer while another fished around for the cell key.
The French guard, an averaged sized man with a scruffy chestnut brown beard, opened the metal gate and laid down a tray with heavily watered down soup. As he pushed himself back up using the legs in his muscles he was jumped on by the fisherman and the printer. The fifth man, a New Englander merchant, tore open the pockets lining the Frenchman's blue jacket, grunting every time one was found to be empty.
"Uh…you guys," America blinked. He had noticed a fancy, shiny tool lying on the ground next to the tray with soup on it.
The men ignored him and continue to pry open every pocket on their captive.
"You guys," America raised his voice. When one of them finally looked over he pointed down to the key, resting soundly on the ground.
All four men, the American colonist and the Frenchman, made a quick dash for the key but the North Carolinian was the quickest. He snatched up the object and raced out of the cell, slamming the door after he exited and locking it.
"What are you doing, Isaiah!" The New Jersey citizen shouted, "Let us out!"
"You can all rot in this cell while I report the information to the British army! Surely they'll aware me handsomely with lots of land!" Isaiah hollered as he dashed out of the prison.
"Dude, that's jank!" America shot out, grabbing the bars of the cellar. He shook them to show frustration but ended up cracking them instead. He blinked at the broken bars in his hands, then turned to face the stares of the other men, "Uh-oh."
"…You…broke the bars." The first man, a Virginia native, said in surprise.
"Yeeeeeeeaaaaaah." America acknowledged, rubbing the back of his head.
"Break the rest them!" The printer added without a second to waste.
America instinctively turned to the Natives to read their expression. As he expected they barely had any emotion on their face.
"Well," He shrugged with a grin, "Okay, I guess."
Ripping open the bars, he decided that these guys would never be able to get out of the city anyway. The cell would be open for them and the jailer to get out and surely the jailer would notify the authorities. He didn't like the idea of his fellow Americans getting caught again, but it would buy him some time to find Canada and warn him.
Racing out of the cell, ignoring the calls of the French guard, half because he didn't care, half because he couldn't understand him anyway, Alfred raced down the stone cold hall, past the lobby where two other jailers sat startled by the breakout and pushed through the front door and out into the street.
Hitting the pavement he raced around the city, glowing by candle-lit streetlights, looking for the Marquis' home. If what the prisoners said was true, then Canada would be there. He needed to confront the young colony and encourage him to seek peace with his younger self and England. If the Seven Years War could be prevented then he could avoid one hundred and eighty years plus of strangeness from his neighbour.
)()()()()(
America stared up at a large, fancy gothic mansion convinced this was the place he should be. He had asked, using his best French accent, "Marquis? Marquis?" and his efforts led him here.
Running up the block steps he pounded away at the jet black doors. A young woman, nicely kept with delicate brown curls under a pink hat, opened the door.
"Please don't scream, please don't get mad, please don't call the cops," America yelled out exhaustively, "Just let me in, I need to talk to Canada!"
The young woman, her dress equally pink and white, stared at the panting man. She hesitated, unsure of how to act. Another older woman in a navy blue dress crept up quickly behind her and stared down at America. Alfred was certain the woman was her mother. He repeated the last part of his ramble.
The woman glared at him before shouting, "Anglais!"
"No, no, no!" Alfred shouted back, "Canada! I need Canada!"
"You will never destroy this colony!" The woman harped at him in a heavy accent. "Go die somewhere!"
"C'mon lady! This is seriously important! Canada's like my bro!"
The woman glanced at him slowly from head-to-toe. Determining the funny looking man to be sincerely by the look on his face, she moved back to let him in. Not before America was fully in the door she instructed a guard in her house (making America nervous again) to pat down the blonde to ensure he had no weapons on him. Finding none the guard assured everything was safe – making America glad he had left his gun at home instead of bringing it to the G20 meeting.
The woman guided Alfred down the hall, leaving her daughter and the guard behind. She brought him into a study where America's eyes were caught by an old man writing furiously with a feather and ink on a piece of parchment. He muttered something, wiggling his nose with his glasses hanging on the edge as he scribbled another line on the tanned paper.
America's eyes also caught another figure in the room. This one was more recognizable to him, "Canada!"
The young boy with blonde locks looked at him with an aggressive curiosity. He tilted his head snootily and looked away, ignoring the American's presence.
Alfred grumbled to himself, reminding himself that Canada was once a snooty brat. Regardless, he still had to stop the invasion. He knew England would screw him over eventually and it'd be nice to have Canada on his side this time around too. After all, wasn't the old saying bros before hoes? Wait, did that even fit in this scenario? America shook his head exiting his thoughts, all that mattered was that if he had to choose between the two, he'd choose Canada over England every time. Especially since Canada had cheap fresh water…that might come in handy one day. Not to mention diamonds and oil. Well…England had oil (Scotland's oil) but he didn't have diamonds.
Putting his thoughts behind him he marched towards the desk. Canada noticed his approached and watched him carefully.
"I'm here to see you. It's business." America slammed his hands on the chestnut brown desk. It felt cool and smooth on his hands.
The man looked, then pushed himself up to sit straight in his red velvet covered chair, "Avez-vous Anglais…"
"Yeah, yeah, we all got that." America rolled his eyes, "You must speak English…that lady over there does and I'm guessing she's your wife."
"Oui." The man blinked, curling one hand into the other behind the wooden structure, "What kind of business are you proposing, sir?"
"I'm suggesting that you find me-er…America, and propose peace with him!"
The old man burst out into a raving laughter, "Make peace with that little monster!"
"Are you stupid!" Canada cut into the conversation, his voice still high in his nine or ten year old looking body, "America is the one who attacked us!"
It had been a long time since America had heard Canada speak with a thick French accent. He took a moment to remind himself that this really was the young man he thought of as a brother.
"Yeah," Alfred lamented, recalling how one of the towns in his northern colonies struck up a deal with the Natives to burn down one of Canada's villages, "And I'm sure he's sorry about that. I mean, you guys are practically brothers!"
"No we are not!" Canada was fuming, "I would never look at that piece of English garbage as a brother!"
The older blond frowned. He began to question what his and Canada's relationship might be like if he continued on with this peace negotiation. Because if Canada was going to be a pompous prick like this if he stayed French than maybe an invasion really was better…
Before he could decide a loud booming sound outside was heard.
"Les Americans!" Men and women were screaming, racing down the streets to avoid being fired at by musket balls.
"How did they get into the city!" Canada shouted running up to the window and looking out.
[It does not matter! We need to organize the militia now!] The grey haired man jumped up from his seat and raced out of the room.
Canada followed behind trailed by America and the woman. They exited the building together and noticed the perpetrators.
"Hey!" America noticed the figures, "It's those dudes! From the jail!"
"Who?" The woman glared at him.
"Oh," America scratched his neck, "It's a long story. When I got here some smelly farmer dudes tied me up and brought me aaaaaaallllllll the way out here –"
"I don't want to hear your stupid story!" The woman barked at him.
"Sir," The head of the house called out to a fellow on the street, "Where are the Americans coming from!"
"The main gate," The man hollered back. He was dressed finely in tanned and brown coloured clothing. He continued to shout in French, "Not just Americans though! There are red coats too!"
"The Brits." Canada growled.
America looked around as a line of line of red coats turned the corner. The person leading the march looked strangely familiar. He squinted his eyes until the figure was clear. Oh. My. God. It was England. America jumped off the stairs and took flight down the street. The three that remained behind yelled at him to return and questioned where he was going. The woman called for the guard to chase after him but he stayed hesitant.
)()()()()(
America chased England as he and a smaller group of red coats headed off into another direction, "Hey! Wait! Waaaaiiiiit!"
"England!" America caught up to the Brit and grabbed a hold of him, "Dude! Call this thing off! Stop invading Canada!"
The Brit blinked uncertain to what he was seeing, "A-America?"
"Yeah, dude!" America grinned, "It's me!"
"B-but…" England staggered. He had had some ale earlier before charging into battle…but surely he hadn't had enough to make him drunk.
"It's a long story," America explained, "I'll explain later, but right now I need you to call this all off!"
The scruffy blond shook his head, releasing his shoulder's from Alfred's grip, "Are you daft! First you want me to invade; now you don't! And when did you get big!"
"Argh!" America threw his hands in the air, "Whatever! If you won't stop this then I will!"
Alfred ignored England's calls and turned on his heels to head back to the manor. When he found it again he was startled by the vision before him. Canada was standing, his brows furrowed, staring harshly at the boy opposite him. America frowned, knowing who he was glaring at.
"It's me." He whispered to himself. His surroundings faded out – the dying soldiers crying for their mothers, the orphaned children screaming, angry threats in English and French…. His full focus was on the two boys ahead of him.
"Well…" The young America grinned, "at last we meet."
"Oui." Canada said, still studying his opponent with a sharp eye.
"It's too bad it won't last." Little America smirked, pulling out a bayonet, "You won't live long enough for there to be another meeting."
Canada, or Mathieu as he was sometimes called, narrowed his eyes, a look of rage deep in his irises. "That is not likely. I will expel you from my home and bar you out for life! I will not let you destroy me!"
"Oh yeah! Well I'm not going to let you destroy me either!" Young America lunged at Canada with his blade but was forced back by a larger person. "Hey! What's going on!"
"Stop it!" Alfred could no longer sit on the sidelines and watch as the two beat each other out of existence. "Don't fight you guys! You have a lot more in common than you think! Just talk to each other!"
"I have no time for talking!" The younger American shouted. He reached into his side pocket and pulled out a smaller hand gun. He whipped his arm up and shot at Canada point blank.
America stared bewildered as Canada stood still, shock written on his face. The young Canadien had been shot in the chest.
America grabbed his younger self and shook him violently, "What hell dude! What did you just do! Where the hell did you get a gun!"
As his younger self wiggled away America's mind flashed back to the same scene. He remembered standing before Canada in the raid on the city, knife in hand…but…there was no gun! Where'd I get the gun from?
Frantically looking around America found the culprit. His younger self had managed to get away and raced towards the New Jersey printer from the jail cell. America's eyes bulged out of his head as it dawned on him that Canada's injury was his fault.
Turning back around Alfred saw Canada limped over on the ground, holding his wound. The tall blonde nation jumped over to him and held him. Canada's breathing had quickened into little gasps as America glanced at the blow which appeared to penetrate the area containing his lounges.
"Dude, hang in there! C'mon, don't die on me!" America screamed as he held the nation he often thought of as a brother, "I'll take you to a hospital! You've got free healthcare, right!"
In a dazed panicked he called out to anyone in the vicinity for help, but those who were around were too occupied in their own fights. A canon ball came hurdling towards them, most likely shot from outside the city, and crashed into the building the two were huddling near. America covered the young Canada from being covered in dust and debris. Pulling away he observed that the colony was no longer breathing or moving. Tears swelled in his eyes, feeling the 'all too real' loss of someone important.
"I'm sorry" he chanted over and over again, closing his eyes.
)()()()()(
When he reopened them he was surrounded by a cool darkness, no longer holding the small would-be nation. There was complete silence and he was lying down.
"Huh?" He sniffled, sitting up.
"Oh hey!" A cheerful voice greeted him.
Looking over he saw a quiet smile painted on North Italy's face.
"Italy…where…?"
"We're in some cabin place. Everyone's still sleeping," Italy pointed in the general direction of everyone else in the room.
"So it was just a dream then…" America sighed, but quickly shot his eyes open and looked around, "But where's Canada!"
Italy shrugged, "I don't know…he wasn't here when I woke up."
Alfred threw his hand into the pocket of his brown fighter jet jacket and pulled out his cellphone. Turning it on he grumbled, "No signal."
"Sorry," Italy frowned, "I guess I should have told you. I tried phoning Romano too, but it didn't work."
"Oh," America put on a fake smile to stop Italy from being sad, "It's ok. I'll just see him later."
America looked up behind him to the window where a bluish-white light flooded in from. Tilting his head slightly he caught an image of the moon producing the glow. He wondered if Canada was staring at the moon too…waiting for him to come back.
Sorry, I'm kind of too lazy to go into detail over this but I'll give you some basic historical notes:
1) This takes place, as mentioned during the Seven Years War (or War of the French and Indians if you're American – don't ask why they decided to give it a brand new name…hell if I know). The war generally took place in the 1750s but Canada, who was defeated, was not fully assimilated into the British Empire until 1763 with the signing of the Treaty of Paris (1763). After capturing most of France's colonies Britain gave them/him a choice: The Caribbean or Canada. France decided to be an asshole and chose the Caribbean over Canada…
2) France doesn't appear in this chapter helping Canada because the French more or less abandoned Canada in this war. (Voltaire and Madame de Pompadour are assholes too).
3) From my knowledge no fighting took place between the Americans/British and French Canadiens in Quebec City, but rather outside the city. The most famous of course, being the Battle on the Plains of Abraham (which by the way has a "part two" after winter in which the Canadiens drive the Americans back).
4) Wanna know who else was a printer (albeit from Pennsylvania) who hated French Canadiens and wanted to see them wiped out? …Benjamin Franklin…
Translations:
~Oui – Yes
~Qu'est-ce que c'est – What is it?
~Pour que – So that/in order that (you need to add a subjunctive to complete the statement)
~Avez-vous un Anglais? – Are you an English (speaker)?
~Angleterre – I'm sure most of you know this already, but this is French for "England".
~C'est un criminal! Enfermez lui! – It's a criminal! Imprison him/Lock him up!
~Qu'est-ce c'est am je? – America's failed attempt at saying "Where am I?" what he ends up saying is, "What is am I?" with the "am" being retained in English.
~Ville de Quebec – Quebec City.