My school finally broke down and made an anime club. It's actually pretty cool. There are a few weebos, but I don't mind.
Anyway, you don't care about that. Onto the peptalk.
Songs-
'We Will Recover' by Natasha Bedingfield
'Can't Stop Now'- by Keane
'Flagpole Sitta'- by Harvey Danger
Alfred sipped down his glass of coffee he'd just fixed. He felt dizzy and nauseous again, and he couldn't remember falling asleep last night. He and England had gone out for some beers to celebrate Alfred's 'not-defaulting'. (The American was physically under his own drinking age, so he had Coca-Cola)
He had to carry the Brit back to his house and put him on the couch closest to the toilet for the night. He had collapsed on his own bed, tired and sore. His strained mind just drifted off, the ends of reality and his astral plane started merging.
He still dreamed of the past. Things seemed clearest when looking at the past instead of trying to move forward. It was too scary to think about what might be coming. He was in a tight situation, fighting on multiple fronts, owing a dozen-trillion dollars, and having fingers pointed at him every time something went wrong in the world.
The doorbell woke him up in the morning. He groaned and rolled over, but the bell just rang again. He sighed and put a pillow over his head. The bell screeched louder, again and again.
"Goddammit, I'm coming! Jesus Christ!" He hauled himself up and jogged down the stairs, gripping his door and tugging it open.
"Morgen, Amerika," A deep voice said seriously as Alfred rubbed his eyes. "Did I wake you?"
He looked up, "Germany?" he grinned. "I was expecting I had a package or something…" He took the other country's hand and shook it sleepily. "I always wonder how you can be awake so early?"
"I jog in the mornings. Self-discipline is always a priority to better oneself."
Alfred rubbed his eyes and sat on his front porch. "Mmm…sleeping in is a weekend ritual 'round here."
"You should really do more physical training," Ludwig said seriously, his voice was deep and he had a strong accent, but Alfred heard enough accents to understand them all. "Your people are becoming larger and larger each year…and not in the proper way."
"Gee, thanks for your criticism. I don't hear that enough from England," Alfred muttered sarcastically. "What brings you here anyway?"
Ludwig sighed and bent over to sit next to the American on the front steps. "I vanted to speak vith you."
Alfred cleared his throat and smiled. "Yeah? What about?"
"I vant the real Amerika back."
"Hm?"
"You haven't been yourself in the past ten years. What happened to that courage, determination, and vision that you had? You lost all that morale that West Europe looked up to you for. You were on top after the forties. Your people were making fifteen times more than we vere. Vhat about now?"
Alfred laughed, "Now? Now, one in ten of my citizens are out of work, and ninety-percent of them believe our government is failing them."
They sat in awkward silence for a few minutes. The German man seemed deep in thought, like he was really trying to think of something good to say.
"Remember Joe Louis in the thirties, Alfred?" the Ludwig finally said, frowning at the ground. "He was inferior, the child of a family of slaves, and the victim of segregation. His parents were exiled from their homes by the Ku Klux Klan. But, he kept his family fed by boxing. He had ten straight wins in the championship. He was your hero for years until he fought Hitler's best man, Max Schmelling. He took a beating, Alfred…remember that?"
The American just cocked up an eyebrow, staring at Ludwig, unsure whether he should be offended or what. "Why are you reminding me of this?"
"Because, he got back up, America," Germany said seriously. "He was knocked down, and the media taunted him for three years after he lost. He let your people down. He was hated. But, he kept working to become stronger. And, he got back in the ring. He fought Schmelling again in 38. And he won."
Alfred picked at the rubber on the bottom of his shoe. "It's just the American way…" he muttered.
"Then back up your words," Ludwig said deeply. "The economy might be bad right now, but instead of blaming your bosses and pointing fingers, raise your own morale. Make people want to make it better, because right now, they're dragging their feet."
"It's not like I can just make them-"
"No excuses!" the strict man snapped. "You're the West's icon. You can't fall on your knees after one beating and wallow in remorse over what's lost and what you can't get back. You have to keep moving forward, just pull yourself up, and fight again. I thought that was the rule in America. It's just a little debt and some unemployment. You don't dwell on losing your spirit; you just do something great, and bring it back tenfold."
Alfred hung his head. German was one of his best friends after he'd helped get the strong nation back on his feet after WWII. The German had been bitter at the time. America had lost him his brother, and divided him off with the Soviet Union, like he wasn't a country at all- like he was their property. But, at least things had been better on the West side than for Gilbert in East Germany. Alfred, Francis, and Arthur worked together in the Berlin Airlift and supplied Ludwig's people with food and living supplies.
The two countries had become friends since then- or at least as close to being friends as countries could get. And Alfred valued every ally he could get lately. Everyone just tossed the blame on him when things went downhill. But, at least Ludwig believed things could get better.
Alfred hardly believed the same thing. So, he made up excuses and talked with his hands. "It's hard to do that when you don't have a war that's being supported by your people. The difference between now and the thirties, is that nobody wants us to fight in Iraq anymore. Thousands of my citizens are unemployed, and it's not like I can send them all to factories to make weapons like I did back then."
Ludwig just lifted a shoulder and stood. "But, you didn't expect WWII to fix your economy and make you a superpower, did you?"
"Well…how would I? That's not something a person expects…"
"Ja, one expects war to bring nothing but hell- and it does. And yet, the outcomes of war often bring productive changes. But, vhat I'm getting at is: the vorld will surprise you. Things have a way of vorking out. And maybe things will fall apart, maybe people will go homeless and starve, but vhen you can pull through, your people vill remember why their country is so great."
Germany squeezed the American's shoulder in an assuring way. Alfred just nodded, staring at the ground.
"If something is broken, then fix it, Amerika. That has always been your way. Is your government broken? Or, does it just feel that way?"
"But…I still think that Capitalism and Republican Democracy is the best government…it's the only system that lets me feel free…" Alfred began, but he cut off prematurely. he didn't know how to finish his thought. There was a part of him that still trusted the people in control, but he couldn't help but be cynical when he was put in this sad condition.
Ludwig just furrowed his brows. "You vant that freedom, ja? You have always lived to strive for that. So, repair yourself. Remember vhat you stand for, and bring back that glory. You helped me back on my feet sixty years ago."
Alfred groaned. "Everyone wants change, but I don't know if I want things to change. What if they change for the worse? I don't think my people understand who we are. A lot of my people are suggesting plans that sound a lot like communism, and they don't even understand what they're talking about. Especially the younger generation. They don't understand their own roots. They'd rather complain like their parents. Teenagers don't even say the pledge of allegiance in their classrooms because it's suddenly become 'uncool' to be patriotic."
"And you can feel it can't you? When they lose their faith in you, you start to feel it."
Alfred nodded. "It's scary. I reinvent myself every fifteen years or so when the new generation comes. I'm afraid they'll let me down…"
"All nations fear that, Amerika," the German said logically.
"We need a good villain to fight. I need to give them a reason to love me again."
Germany folded his hands. "With the way the world goes, it's likely to come. It's been twenty years since the Reds fell, it's overdue."
"Terrorists were supposed to be the next enemy, but we've been fending them off so well, people are able to ignore it happily. I just hope I don't have to be attacked again for us to recognize a threat…"
The front door creaked open, interrupting the intense conversation, and both nations turned. Arthur was standing behind them, squinting into the sun, wearing a white tee-shirt and baggy sweatpants. "Do you have any aspirin?"
"It's in the medicine cabinet in the upstairs bathroom," America replied calmly.
"When did you get here, Germany?" England said groggily.
"I just came to speak vith Amerika. I'll be going if the two of you would like?"
Alfred waved his hand dismissively. "Naw, Artie's just visiting."
England nodded and retreated back into the house to take a shower and have some painkillers.
"He got drunk off his ass last night," Alfred laughed, elbowing the German.
Ludwig allowed a smile, and they sat in silence for a moment. Alfred was staying in D.C. again. His personal home was in the suburbs, in a small neighborhood near the city, so the two sat back and watched daily suburban life. A random jogger or someone walking a dog would pass, as did the occasional car.
"So…I vanted to talk to you about China and Russia…" the German said carefully.
Alfred groaned. "Don't wanna talk about that..."
"Vell, it is relevant, so you cannot avoid it. And, I can't allow you to go to someone like France for advice, as I know you will…"
Alfred rolled his eyes and cleared his throat again. "Say what you've got," he invited.
"Vell, firstly, you shouldn't fear China. He's shown no aggression towards you. You're only acting childish by comparing yourself to him constantly."
"Well, I-"
"Don't interrupt," Ludwig snapped. "I vasn't finished."
Alfred sighed and motioned for him to continue.
Germany took a deep breath. This was just as hard for him to say as it was for Alfred to hear. "People- and countries…we change. I know that the Russian Federation doesn't exactly like the west. But, they don't hate us anymore…at least, not collectively."
"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," Alfred muttered, rising up. "He'd still love it if I were to fall."
Germany rubbed his temple. "No one vants you to fall. The most they vould like vould be for you to step down a few notches. Do you not realize? If you fall, you take down half the vorld with you. But, it's not even a fear. You've been through, vorse, yes?"
"If you're not afraid of me letting you all down, then why are you here anyway?"
"Because, you seem have low morale lately, and it's unsettling and unusual. You can't let Russia, China, and your economy depress you, not when so many people are relying and looking on you."
"Is that all?" Alfred said, brushing himself off and standing. He was glad for the lengthy pep-talk from such an unexpected place, but he didn't want to be told what to do right now. Not from anyone, not his boss, not his business people, not his banks, and definitely not from other countries.
Ludwig just sighed and stood up. "Vell, I'll leave you to your own devices zen."
They said their polite goodbyes and Alfred returned inside. He opened his cabinet to get some cereal, and the telephone rang suddenly.
It was his boss…
He just talked quietly, his voice fading away. This was the last thing he needed right now, but he just nodded and agreed. Maybe some good jet-speed dog-fighting would do him some good right now. The adrenaline always helped.
Alfred hung up his phone and ran his hand through his hair. He moved up the stairs to his bedroom to suit up. Someone would be in the front yard in twenty minutes to pick him up.
Arthur came around the corner while the American pulled on a white tank top to wear under his uniform shirt. He put his dog-tags on, just for the effect of it really; he didn't expect to be shot down. He was their ace pilot, their trump card; there was no way he'd be bested by an Iraqi.
"Where are you going?" the Brit questioned.
Alfred turned, finally noticing the other man's presence. "They need me in Iraq. I'll be back by tomorrow… You can head home if you don't wanna be here by yourself, but I don't care if you stay…"
England blinked, "I just got a call from my boss to come home. Apparently people are rioting in the streets…" He said it so casually, as if he were trying to brush it off before America could panic over it.
Alfred shrugged and slipped on his uniform shirt, fiddling with the buttons. He pulled on his bomber jacket over the suit. "Like I told ya, I don't care what you do," he said, patting the man's arm as he passed. "See ya, Artie," he chirped happily. A dog-fight seemed more and more appealing. He could use some G-forces to clear his head.
Arthur stared after him, reaching out and grabbing the American's wrist. Alfred turned just to be pulled into a rough, awkward hug. He smiled and returned it. England pushed a piece of blonde hair behind America's ear, "Good luck…" he muttered.
Alfred's grin faded; he just stood there, unsure what to make of that. The planes that the Iraqis used were usually Soviet jets. England understood what this meant as well as he did. But, Alfred knew his own enemy.
Arthur released him and they exchanged looks.
Alfred left without another word.
…
Alfred silently thanked God for the advancements in aerial warfare during Dessert Storm. He loved dog-fights, feeling like he belonged perfectly in the air, but the technology had become extremely advanced.
It was his way. Innovate to fit the needs of the times. Innovate to cover distance, innovate to stay on top, invent for the hell of it, invent to recover, invent to entertain, and move forward at every opportunity.
He was in Iraq, currently engaged in a team dogfight with four American jets and five Iraqi ones. The Iraqis used Migs, jets they still bought from the Russian Federation.
A Mig-25 turned as sharp as it could, but Alfred's F-39 could maneuver much faster with better agility. Alfred pulled down sharp, dipping below the Iraqi jet. He leveled out in a proper chase formation and pushed his jet as fast as it would fly. The adrenaline fended off the effects of the g-forces.
The Migs were Soviet engineering. They could cover a distance as large as Texas in less than a minute. But, Alfred wasn't alone in the air. Three of his comrades were helping him take down five Iraqi jets.
Alfred pulled up behind the Mig and dodged one of his comrades going down from above him. He locked on the Mig and sent off a heat-seeking missile. The Iraqi pilot sent off a decoy flare and the missile collided to that instead.
Alfred cursed in the back of his throat and used a regular long-range missile. The Mig had mistaken it for a heat-seeker and launched off more flares. Alfred grinned and launched off one last heat-seeker that went unnoticed this time. It made contact directly with the tale-pipes of the Mig and the Iraqi jet became a cloud of fire and dust.
Alfred's squadron-mates were cheering on the microphones. It was three Americans against four Iraqis now. But, backup came in with long distance –beyond-visual-range- and another Iraqi jet exploded in a cloud of smoke. More loud cheering ensued.
But it was a short-lived victory. A Mig was pulling up into targeting formation behind Alfred. The American dipped, turning hard left in his F-39. The Mig trailed him, gaining on him.
Alfred tried to use his jet's agility against the Iraqi by switching quickly to hard right, still dropping thousands of feet every moment. When the Mig followed easily, Alfred considered trying to climb and turn up behind the jet, but the Mig had better climbing capabilities and they would probably just pass him.
So he kept dipping. It was a futile run and he knew it. What he didn't understand was, where were his allies? The Mig was positioning himself for a head seeking side-winder shot, so Alfred shot off some flares.
They caught the missile, but Alfred was already too low and it was too late to climb, the jet was going to hit the ground.
Alfred ejected as quickly as he could, yet the jet exploded around him. The fire didn't get to him in the ejected cockpit, but a large chunk of shrapnel skewered through the metal frame and directly through the left side of the American's chest. Alfred cried out in pain.
He coughed blood and jerked forward into the controls as the capsule hit the sand. Flaming bits of the jet streamed down from the sky around him. Alfred slowly lost consciousness with the thought that no one would know to look for him…
I apologize for that super-long pep-talk and the bad German accents. I had to include Germany somehow, and he seemed like the type to give a mean morale talk. He's good at organizing people and telling them what to do. He just knows what to say. Plus, I didn't use him in the Cold War context, so I'm including him in the present.
And the jet-dog-fighting is probably because I've been watching the History Channel all day. There was a special on about the Iraqi war. I don't know if I got the names of the jets right or not…but, I tried my best. It's hard to find that information on the internet.
Review please? I'm suspended at 11 per chapter. Which is kinda good I guess. It'd be nice to hear from new people...