AN: I'm posting this chapter early because I'll be away from the computer during the weekend. owo"

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England woke to the sound of applause. Or, at least that was what it sounded like. His head pounded mercilessly, synchronizing with the echoed ringing in his ears. The Brit covered his face with the palms of his hands. The room really needed to stop spinning. He uncovered his face and blinked a few times, frowning. All the Englishman could recall was entering a passenger capsule at the London Eye…and after that, he was dangerously dizzy?

Hello everyone, oldtimers and newcomers alike! Welcome to the annual Metus' Game Show! A voice cut through the applause, shattering the Brit's thoughts.

England jumped, startled. Who in the world was that? He was supposed to be alone in the-

Now presenting- the one and only- your fabulous host, Metus! The applause erupted once again, along with howls and cheers.

The English country closed his eyes again and then opened them. Finally, his vision cleared, and his head numbed from all that pounding. After what he saw, England figured he was still dreaming.

Instead of lying down on the cold, hard floor of the capsule, the personification was standing, leaning against a skinny, metallic podium. The stage he stood on was a translucent glass floor that emitted a brilliant gold hue. Unlike the compacted space of the passenger capsule, he was now in a large room with high, imperceptible ceilings. The next thing he noticed was that the applause came from nowhere. Literally, nowhere. On the opposite side of where the Englishman was standing was seats usually filled with an audience. Rather, the rows of seats were empty, yet the cheering and laughter of hundreds echoed throughout the stadium.

England then regarded his outfit. In place of his woolly trenchcoat and grey trousers was a full, dark-green suit. The Brit stared at it ridiculously, unable to remember when he had ever owned such an outfit. He was still in a state of astonishment, barely able to sense a person standing by him.

"Hellooo," the person called, in a sing-song tone, "anyone in there?" He clicked his tongue and snapped his fingers in the Englishman's face.

The personification blinked, once again being pulled from his thoughts. "Wh-What?"

"Oh dear," the person sighed, tapping his chin. "Still in denial, I see." He grinned, swinging his head back to the rows of empty seats. In response, the 'seats' burst into laughter, applauding once again.

England's face reddened, embarrassed at being laughed at. He poured all his remaining strength into replying. "Stop it! Wh-Where the hell am I? I don't recall coming here! And who the hell are you?!"

The unnamed person raised an eyebrow. "Funny, you'd think you would know, especially when you spent the last few hours looking for this place."

The British country narrowed his eyes. "The last place I was is at the London Eye."

The person smirked and tilted his head. "I suppose I should introduce myself then. I am Metus, the host of this game show." He pointed at England's podium. "The one you're about to play!"

England's eyes widened. "M-Metus?"

Metus did a mock-bow, his smirk growing wider. "The one and only!" The game show host was a middle-aged man, dressed in a plain, black suit with a matching top hat that covered his eyes. His black, slicked-back hair hid in his hat. Various ends of it stuck out from the cracks of his top hat, giving him a rugged look. His outfit was topped off with simple dress shoes with neatly-tied shoelaces and a polished front that could blind a person. When he smiled, his lightly-tanned skin stretched across his dangerously sharp cheekbones. Complete with a gangly figure and an energetic personality, Metus could have represented the face of game show hosts.

"Now wait just a minute," England muttered, rubbing his forehead. "I was looking for you. No, wait, America and I were looking for this show. But-But we couldn't find it."

"And yet, here you are!" Metus clapped his hands, practically bouncing with energy. "Well then, introductions were fun, but now it's time for some-"

"Where's America?"

The host's smile faltered. "All in good time, my dear country. But first, we're going to have a little quiz."

The personification stumbled away from the podium, almost tripping over himself. How'd Metus know he was a country's personification? "What did you say? I-I'm not-"

"You're the personification of Great Britain, if I'm not mistaken." Metus flashed a grin, showing his perfectly-white teeth. "Human name: Arthur Kirkland. Human age: 23. Actual age...hard to say. I'm not the brightest when it comes to history."

The color drained from England's face. He swallowed nervously, saying nothing.

"Yes," the game show host continued, murmuring, "I know all about you. And I know that you have plenty of history." Metus gazed upon the country, giving the Brit shivers. The host stared at England like he was the main course for his dinner.

After a while longer, Metus snapped his head up, looking right into the Englishman's eyes. "I absolutely adore your suit," he commented, "it compliments your eyes!" The host then clapped his hands twice, and the lights turned off, receiving a collective gasp from the invisible audience. A spotlight turned on, and shone directly at England, causing him to squint.

The Brit put his hands up to his eyes, shielding himself from the blinding light. As his eyes adjusted, he gripped the edge of the podium, trying to stop his trembling legs. He kept his emotions in check, but in truth, the country was scared out of his mind. How did Metus know he was actually a personification? How'd he know his human identity? And why was he the one playing the bloody game?

"Let's start the first round! Now, these are simple questions that will let us know more about you," the game show host assured. "Just answer them truthfully, and we'll be able to continue, okay?"

"I- fine." England set his jaw.

A steady drum roll played, while a dramatic tune played in the background. "First question: What do you fear?"

The Englishman seemed taken aback by the question. "Wh-What do I fear? Well...I fear for the wellbeing of my country, my queen. I'm always at constant alert." England glanced at Metus, hoping he had answered the question correctly. Right then, a concerted Boooo! resounded throughout the empty seats.

Metus tisked, shaking his head. "I'm afraid that's not what we're looking for. What do you really fear for? Personally- professional worries thrown away?"

The Brit swallowed. "I don't-"

"Here, let me give you some help," the host interrupted. He snapped his fingers, and the stadium dissolved, along with the empty audience, Metus, and England's podium.

The personification froze, stunned. He looked at his hands to make sure they were still there. The Englishman scanned his surroundings apprehensively. England recognized the place. He was in the conference room, where the world-meeting would usually take place. The British country paced around the room. He couldn't find Metus anywhere, or any signs that the game show had even existed.

All of a sudden, the door to the conference room opened. England held his hands out in a defensive position, backing away from the door. "Who's there?" he demanded uneasily.

The door was swung open, and people came bustling in. No, not just any people, nations. The country relaxed, pleased to see familiar faces. The first personification to take his seat was none other than Germany. England sighed in relief. The German was always logical and right-minded. Perhaps he could figure out what's going on by asking Germany.

The Brit strode over to the German. "Germany, I need to ask-"

Suddenly, Germany stood up from his seat and walked through England. The English personification was still in shock. Could Germany not see him? Was he invisible?

Feeling edgy, England stumbled through the room, finally reaching the seat where America would usually sit at. He was hoping that his former colony would show up, so he could punch him in the face and go home. After all, it was America's fault that he got dragged into this. Plopping in the American's chair, the Englishman put his head down on the table. What a long day it had been.

"Hey, England," The Englishman perked up, undeniably overjoyed to hear the teenager's voice. He turned to find the American country glaring daggers at him.

"America! Great, you're here! Now we c-"

"Yeah, yeah, later." America snapped impatiently. "Could you get out of my seat? Jeez, don't be so annoying."

England frowned. "Oi, if anyone, you're the one who's annoying."

But, the American already had his head turned, ignoring the Brit. The Englishman knit his brows, confused. He tried pulling at America's shoulder, but he couldn't. His hand passed right through the teenager's body. England gaped, examining his hand. He tried getting America's attention again, but no such luck. The American paid him no attention, as if the Brit hadn't existed.

"No," England breathed, "what's happening?" The British nation tried the next seat from America, which sat France. England leaned over the Frenchman's seat, waving his hand in his face. France only sighed, twirling his blond locks.

"Hey, Frenchie," England barked, hopelessly trying to shake the French country. "Look at me!" France didn't give the Englishman so much as a blink.

England backed away, staring into his hands. Except that his hands weren't there anymore. The Brit could feel his hands, yet they looked transparent. In a panic, England raced around the table, aimlessly trying to make the other nations notice him. No one gave him a reaction-China, Russia, Italy, Canada, Japan-none of them.

The English nation finally gave up, collapsing into an empty chair, exhausted. "It's just Metus messing with my head," he mumbled, reassuring himself, "nothing more."

Right on time, Metus visualized in the chair next to him, fiddling with the buttons on his suit. "Do you have your answer yet?" The host questioned casually, looking at the tips of his fingernails.

England almost fell out of his chair. "Hey, don't do that!" he snapped weakly. "And where am I? Why can't America and the others see me?"

Metus smiled widely. "Don't you worry, you're still right where you woke up. As for this-" he gestured to the air around him, "this is us inside your head. You've taken us to the situation which you most fear."

"That's not true," England rebutted stupidly. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

The game show host raised an eyebrow. "Really? Then let me point it out to you very, very clearly. The great British nation is afraid of losing. He's afraid of being forgotten." Metus stood up from his chair, swiveling the seat to face England. "Look: India, Malaysia, Australia, Canada, Egypt, Seychelles, America." Every time Metus spoke a former colony's name, they appeared in the chair, their persona reflecting their past, the time period of British colonies, and then their present. "Look at how happy they are before you came. Especially after they declared independence from you."

The English nation stared blankly at the changing faces, flashing from sad to happy. "You're lying," he managed, his voice barely audible.

Metus scoffed. "Don't be an idiot. Some countries even celebrate their day of independence from you. When do you ever get a clue? No one needed you. Not now, not then, not ever."

The former colonies disappeared, leaving England with an empty chair. The personification blinked, and looked up at the host's grim face. The Brit opened his mouth to say something, but faltered. The country hated to admit it, but it wasn't all lies. The thought had crossed his mind once or twice. Oh, but how it tortured him. The dread, the guilt. England couldn't deny it. He always wondered what his colonies would be without him. He'd always try to put in their best interests. He worked hard to keep them close. But, alas, they broke apart from him, one by one. It left a gaping hole in his heart. They were his family; they fulfilled his fantasy of having people who loved him, who were there for him. England wanted to be more than just the 'black sheep of Europe'.

"Where's America?" The Englishman asked again, pushing the nightmarish thoughts out of his head. England glared at Metus defiantly.

"You'll see him soon enough," the host answered, smoothing out the wrinkles in his suit. The Brit was never good at reading expressions, therefore he thought it was strange that he could point out Metus' expression. Although the host kept a straight face, it looked disgustingly triumphant. He waved his hand in a circular motion, and England's world dissolved around him. The personification found himself back standing behind the steely podium. He looked at the top of it, and a wave of fear rippled through him. The podium's top had the word veni marked on it, looking like it was burned with a steel prod, still smoking from the burn. The word didn't fit on the whole table, for there was more room for more marks towards the right of the table.

"Fun, fun, fun stuff!" The Brit glanced up, finding the restless host clapping his hands. England stifled a gasp. Metus was smoking, like the burnt veni. Fumes of black smoke curled up from every area of his body. But when England blinked, the smoke vanished. Metus was still grinning from ear to ear. "We should play another game! Right, guys?" The host turned around, spreading his arms wide, smiling brightly at the empty seats. Although they didn't look occupied to the personification, they still applauded and cheered in response.

"The jury has spoken," Metus joked, turning to face England again. The Englishman gulped, turning a pale shade of white.

Before the British nation could protest, Metus snapped his fingers once more. England took a deep breath, closing his eyes, bracing himself for another transportation. After silently counting to five, the personification opened his eyes. To his surprise, he was still standing in the gamestage.

However, Metus was nowhere to be seen. "Metus?" England called, warily, "What are you-"

Suddenly, the country was hit with blinding pain. Someone had stabbed him.

...