America:

When I regained consciousness, I was back in my cell. Russia must have redressed me after he finished with me as my pants were on my waist, zippered and buttoned properly. But, while I was pondering that, another question presented itself in the form of a small white bottle sitting next to me. I shifted over as gingerly as I could to check its contents to find that inside the bottle was a softly scented lotion.

What the fuck? Does he expect me to prepare myself next time? Fuck him!

I rolled over with a wince, ignoring the bottle and why it might be there as best as I could, and tried to fall asleep by staring blankly at the wall. I knew I would have to close my eyes in order to sleep, but I couldn't bear to. As soon as I did, all I would see is my mistakes, and maybe Russia's face, tormenting me.

I know. I know, and I'm sorry!

Narrator:

Russia stared deep into the fire, seeking answers. Why? Why was he torturing America? He didn't enjoy it. There was no pleasure in torturing the man. He was already dead inside so there was nothing to twist and torment with his words, and his pipe had never had a great effect on the spirited young man. Why was he putting himself to so much effort? He thought about the moment he decided to save America. What made him carry his unconscious body for miles just to bandage him? Why did he feel the need to... do that to him?

After the Attacks:

Russia had traveled to Europe to survey the damage but he never expected this. The nations were brutalized and occupied by forces of the new radical regime. Europe had fallen in only five years and America had spread his forces too far trying to protect and regain the occupied lands. America fell shortly after, but not with an explosion or a deafening crack like Russia would have expected. Aren't the people who live fiercely supposed to die fiercely? No, America fell with a sickening wail of agony.

Though the nation had been isolated from the crises on the Eastern hemisphere, each nation that fell felt like his own territory. America was the hero. It was his job to save the world from situations exactly like this. He had dreamed since he was a colony of coming to England's recue and protecting him from harm. He had thrown himself into countless battles with little hope for victory in hopes of being a hero, until finally he found a war too big. A war that he could not only not win on his own, but one he couldn't escape from. He was the first to charge into battle and the last to fall, so he watched as his allies fell around him.

Russia had known of the attacks on Europe and had watched as Africa and South America fell, but he also knew that no matter what was happening outside his country, he had a duty to his people to protect them at all costs. He kept his military at his borders and strengthened security in his own land, but outside, Russia was a neutral force. The Russian people had experienced too much suffering and the nation was not ready for a large scale war against a violent terrorist regime. This time, all Russia could do was watch and wait for news. News came and he heard of Europe's fall. He expected American forces to retreat home and protect what they could, but foolishly, the Americans stayed. They were stupid, idealistic, beautiful martyrs. Their bodies littered the landscape in the forms of young men and women of all different races lying dead in a pool of their own blood.

Russia walked across the European battlefield, not expecting survivors. Greater nations had fallen at the hands of lesser threats, but the world was different now. After years of peace and whispered promises of an age without war, the nations had become determined and intertwined in a way. They expected each other to be there, like the sun rising every morning. While their soldiers lie dead in their battlefields, the citizens stood strong in secret, promising to rise again by the light of smuggled candles. Yes, they had fallen and risen before, and like the phoenix, they would rise again.

The American people were different. They had been the strongest, the bravest, and the best, and failed. Alfred's nation was a land of promise and opportunity. He taught his people of his vision of a world free with democracy and peace. They were just as optimistic and enthusiastic in his ideals as he was and they intended to do everything they could to get there.

Russia had been walking across the scarred landscape of France when he discovered the American. He was laying on his side, nose and mouth red with dried blood while the gaping wound in his chest still bled. Russia studied the American face. His face was twisted in pain and his blonde hair was bright against the red blood. Even marred and broken, the American was still radiant. While he had always hoped to see the American like this, he somehow missed his goofy smile. Something about that smile and his sparkling eyes made him feel… something. Something that twisted and churned his insides in a way he wasn't sure he liked… but seeing the young man like this… that was even worse. It seemed like, such a disappointment? …Such a waste of a strong spirit that he would have liked to have broken. That was it, right? It didn't really matter. The smaller man was heaved onto his shoulder and carried away by a Russian who with each step wondered 'why?'.