End of the Dream, Oceans, Inevitable Discovery, Starvation, Shattered, Epica (Audiomachine).

Totally didn't think about this at the time, but since I made HetaOni happen in August of 2012 then all of this happened immediately after the London Olympics. Funky time-warp action go~!

Happy British Columbia Day, guys.

Recovery

Birds of Prey

"Mr. Jones."

"Mr. President."

America was already beginning to miss Italy. It felt like a betrayal to say as much, or to think it, but standing in the Oval Office had begun to feel as taxing as sitting down across the bargaining table from his brother, or dodging phone-calls from nations in Europe. New Year's had been a blast, he couldn't deny it: there was just something about watching the big ball drop in New York that made you feel like a new beginning was on the horizon.

And in a way that new beginning was here.

"Have a seat, Mr. Jones."

Because with his old boss out of office, the new one was settling in quickly…

"Are you familiar with the constitution of the United States, Mr. Jones?" America's new boss was like a lot of his previous ones when it came down to looks and presentation. He was an older gentleman, a former senator, a big businessman with a prestigious degree. Heavy set around the waist and beginning to lose some of his hair, he had the big sausage-hands of a man whose family somewhere along the line had worked the lands and seized every opportunity to get ahead. He had no military experience of note, but his knowledge of economics was par none and he had that capacity for speech that had seen his former boss graciously admit defeat.

"Of course, Sir." America could have added more to his answer. For instance, he could have added the fact that he'd been there for the signing of the Constitution, just like how he'd watched and helped word the Declaration that had put him at war with Great Britain. In this situation, he knew better.

"Son, can you explain to me how the balance of power works here in Washington?" In this situation America had to scramble for all the few, scattered patience he still possessed, and give in to that willing sense of obedience he'd agreed to just over three hundred years ago. "I mean the various branches of the government and all of that. Just a jist of course, we don't have all day and you seem like a competent young man."

Because his new boss was a deeply religious man. America had nothing against a good, strong, strict religious upbringing; but good, strong, strict religious people didn't tend to like immortals.

This was not their first meeting, but the first two had been short and mediated by his former boss. This was their first technical meeting as President and State, but as America diligently listed off and described the various parts and pieces of his government structure, he could tell that today would not end well.

"That's enough Mister Jones." The President sighed, his mid-western accent comfortably stressing the name, but he was rocking back in forth in the heavy desk chair like he was sitting at home instead of in the Oval Office. America didn't find the act itself disrespectful, but despite his best efforts he bristled at what came next. "As I said, young sir you seem like a competent fellow, so given what you've just told me I have another question: what makes you think you're of vital importance in this office?"

Here it came…

"Sir, I don't think you really understand…" America tried to smile, emphasise on 'tried'. He didn't need this kind of tedium right now. "It's not a matter of opinion."

"Now, you know I find that hard to believe." The President shifted in his seat and leaned forward, pulling the edge of his jacket around behind him, resting one arm on his knee and just sitting like that awkwardly, trying to look friendly. "I know the former President liked you quite a bit, but I don't have to repeat my campaign slogan for you: the White House is a place of business, not skateboards and vain tricks."

"Of course sir, you made that very clear." Especially since he'd just repeated his campaign slogan, but America didn't say that, he couldn't; this was his new boss. "We need a strong leader here in Washington, and I have faith in you." I. He threw in the I because it was hard to play along, he was under too much stress, emotionally and economically, to play games. His boss cleared his throat and the United States of America tilted his chin up to show his defiance.

His new boss… had not beaten his old boss by very much. His new boss had won by one percentage point above the margin of error. America had chosen his new boss over his old boss, but it had been a very near thing.

"Now that's the kind of attitude I have a problem with, Mr. Jones." America. His name was America. Patriots could use that other name and yes the President counted as a patriot, but not if he was going to use that name so carelessly. "I've gone through this office and I've alerted all the staff, but no one can find your journeyman's paperwork or your internship forms, there's no obvious reason why a boy just shy of twenty is invited to loiter around the White House- and behind locked doors! Do you know how many men your age have been inside this room?

"Quite a few, sir, it's part of the tour." America almost bit his tongue for the comment, and his President gave him a scolding look. Fine, that had been inappropriate but to be honest so were the questions.

"Mr. Jones, what I'm trying to say is that the frivolities of the previous administration are over." America's presence in the White House was not a frivolity… "And as the head of this administration, and a new direction for America, it falls to me to dismiss you from this office."

But unless he was willing to dig down deep for that hot, corruptive power, that special skill all nations possessed that robbed good men of all sense and free will… Unless America was willing to break a vow made over three hundred years ago…

"I understand, sir." Then he would have to sit this administration out, the way he had so many times before.

New Year's came, New Year's went, and it was hard but Veneziano finally took his first steps outside on the day Romano left for Hong Kong.

He walked all the way to the edge of the sidewalk with Vatican holding his hand, and he let Romano kiss him on both cheeks as he promised to take the first plane home as soon as the conference was over. No one expected North Italy to leave Rome for at least a few more weeks, not even their boss, but South Italy was entirely different. Someone had to represent the Republic internationally, and there were just some meetings a human couldn't substitute for.

So he flew into Hong Kong for an international summit on Energy and Information, which was a fucking useless thing to drag him away from home for, and when he landed Romano was surprised when Hong Kong was there to greet him personally. He was surprised because it was two in the god-damned morning, and Romano had a hellish time sleeping on flights and didn't know what time his internal clock thought it was. Nations didn't handle jet-lag very well, and there was a six hour difference between Rome and Hong Kong…

"Did you have a pleasant flight?" It wasn't like China's little brother to be so talkative… "The food was acceptable?"

"For plane food." Hong Kong was shorter than Romano which had to say something, but he offered to take South Italy's luggage for him, and he walked with him out into the cool evening air. For some strange reason instead of stuffing him in a taxi or a limo or a shuttle to take him to the delegate hotel, Hong Kong directed him to the parkade and the two of them climbed into a personal vehicle instead.

What the fuck was going on?

"Eh, I'm staying at the hotel, right?" Climbing awkwardly into the car after Hong Kong first held open his door, then closed it for him, he watched the pseudo-state get into the driver's seat and fiddle around with the controls before asking the question. Hong Kong immediately froze and gave him a surprised look.

"If you would prefer a hotel, then of course one can be arranged."

"Okay, stop it." This was weird. "What the hell's going on? You're being creepy."

"You're very straight-forward."

"I am, now cut the crap."

China liked to put on a creepy smile whenever someone called him on his bullshit, but for some reason Hong Kong was a lot like Japan when it came to just not doing anything with his face. Obviously he was thinking hard about something, but before Romano could freak out and start fighting with his door to escape the cramped conversation, the city-state spoke up:

"If it is necessary for you to return to Rome and look after your brother, an appropriate story can be thought up to excuse you." Huh? W- Wait a second what the fuck- why was China's little brother saying shit like that!

"San Marino… is fine." Was the best Romano could come up with, too exhausted after his flight to lunge with both hands around Hong Kong's throat and demand an answer. He was staring and he knew it, but so was Hong Kong and when the city looked back at the wheel in front of him, he made a soft 'hm' sound.

"If you prefer that code name, I will make a note of it." Code name.

"Code name for what?" Or for who?

"We haven't told anyone, or at least I haven't." They hadn't told anyone what? What they? "Seborga was very clear about it being a secret, so-" Seborga?

Micro-nations.

OH-

"YOU ASS-FACED LITTLE SHIT." Oh dear… "WHEN I GET HOME YOU'D BETTER FUCKING RUN. DO YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?" Actually he hadn't, so Romano really was over-reacting.

Romano kept shrieking through the phone and Seborga very quietly placed it down on the table, silently weighing his options before he just grabbed his jacket and swung it on, turning away and leaving the kitchen and the hissing device behind.

For them Romano had left yesterday, and apparently Seborga would have to give Hong Kong a talking-to later. Now it was morning again in Rome, and as he swept his house-keys off the coffee table in the living room the Micro-nation made himself smile for his brother who was standing anxiously by the door. Romano would forgive him, he'd told his friends about Veneziano's return hours before Romano had come up with his 'no telling anyone!' rule. The Micro-nations knew not to blab, Hong Kong had just made an error in judgement.

Hopefully.

But back to the matter at hand: their outing. For weeks now, Veneziano had been getting better about the world outside the house. He'd only ventured out to the street once to say good bye to Romano yesterday, but the closed courtyard in the back had been his training ground for over a month. The greatest hurtle was always stepping over the threshold, and after that everything else was just a matter of getting him to take baby steps. Just standing outside could be difficult for him with the different noises and the cold air, but he was learning to cope and adjust to it. He could spend a few minutes walking around now, or just sit outside by the dormant flower pots if there was someone to keep him company. His stamina was slowly coming back, but the pain of reconstruction kept hindering his progress.

Tearing down compromised buildings, gutting ruined commercial centres, liquidating bankrupt companies; all of these things were painful for nations, especially ones that focused so much on trade and industry like Veneziano did. There were still nights he woke up in excruciating pain, and Seborga kept his eye on the news whenever he noticed his brother not eating or beginning to shake and tremble from worker's strikes and protests. He was too fragile to be left alone. Seborga missed his village but he would rather be here than worrying at home.

"Ready?"

Veneziano was bundled up too much for the chilly weather outside, but it was better than having him go out and feel cold. He liked to be warm, so under the long, olive-green coat that came down to his knees, Veneziano was wearing a sweater over a white shirt. They'd pulled a pair of black dress pants from his closet and ironed them, leather gloves and a green scarf pulled on to keep him safe from the brisk wind waiting outside.

His wardrobe had been a point of interest throughout most of January. Veneziano had purged almost every item that was red or the same dark royal blue from his old uniform. His black shirts were gone too and he'd gotten rid of most of his ties. He was lucky that Seborga was almost his size in everything except in-seam, but they weren't going shopping for new clothes today. They were going to try something a bit different.

Just like when he took a walk in the courtyard, crossing the threshold onto the street took him a long, long time to prepare for. He let Seborga go first and then just stood there in the doorway, looking around. He wasn't worried about the step itself; his eyes just swallowed all the details running up and down the road. The numbers on the buildings across the street, the honking horns in the distance, the trill of a bike bell speeding by. There were a few trees planted in the sidewalk down this part of town, and a crow's rough caw brought his attention up to search for it.

It was a lot to take in.

Finally, with his scarf tugged up to protect his lips and nose from the nippy cold, Veneziano took a deep breath stepped out into the city of Rome.

Italy was one of the last delegates to arrive in Hong Kong, and to be frank England preferred to ponder on that instead of wondering why America was so unfashionably late. He didn't ponder it very hard though, because he was a bit too nervous to join the crowd of nations that practically mobbed Italy as soon as he and Hong Kong stepped into the meeting room.

Austria appeared out of nowhere, Norway shook his hand, and Switzerland was left folding his arms with a scowl as he was made to wait before sharing a short word and a nod with the other state. Romania started gabbing about something and England just sipped his lemon-sweetened tea before glancing at the nation sitting next to him, and then nodded in the Italian's direction.

"So, have you spoken to him recently?" For himself, England hadn't spoken to Italy since he'd pulled most of his personnel out of the crisis zones. Maybe an e-mail here and there to check something, or having one of his bureaucrats talk to an Italian bureaucrat, but otherwise there had been little more than whispers between London and Rome since the end of November. It was nearly February.

"Absolutely not," France chirped, but it was with that false kind of cheer he called up whenever he didn't want to dwell on something. "We did speak briefly just before Christmas, but it was only to say that he was spending the Holiday in Africa." Now, England found that curious.

"But the Vatican's in Rome, surely…?" He let his words trail off, because there was no sense getting into that sort of painful discussion. Italy's spiritual health wasn't something England could poke at without causing an unpleasant stir. It wasn't his place to go asking questions about what was "best" for someone when England had fled to the most crowded and noisy place he could think of for the Holidays. He was positive he still had sand in his hair from laying on those Australian beaches…

France gave a tense shrug, and then of all things pretended to browse through the papers in front of him like they were somehow more important. England didn't push the subject; he just sipped his tea again and noted the empty seat across the table from him, then the one to his right.

It wasn't like America to be this late. Canada kept checking his watch next to the empty chair and looking at the door as the nations around Italy slowly dispersed to find their places, but it wasn't doing him any good as everyone settled down.

"He's coming, yes?" France mused, surprising the Englishman with his mild tone, eyes still downcast and skimming the graphs and charts for the meeting. "Perhaps you should ask Canada before we begin?"

"Ask him what?" England repeated, curious, but without answering him France leaned forward and spoke around him, looking at Canada and that damned empty chair between them.

"My dear, Canada do you know where your brother is?" Of all the times England wished he'd lost his French, now was certainly one of them. He scowled at the Frenchman next to him and ignored Canada's shy murmur about not knowing if America had even gotten on his flight or not.

"Look at me, Frog." He made this one of his better scowls, the kind that could peel paint off a rail or make Sealand shriek like a little girl.

France was doing it again. He was making those kinds of comments and not meeting England's fierce stare, he was bringing up dead business and poisoning the atmosphere. America wasn't here, fine, they could all see that and it didn't bear so much repetition or emphasis. Did the idiot get off on pointing out things like this? Was that a smile he was hiding behind his hand? Was he grinning as he sat there rubbing the stupid golden scruff on his stupid pointy chin?

The temptation to up-end his tea over France's head was almost overwhelming, and England nearly lost his composure when he remembered that France was the one who'd brought the tall paper cup to him in the first place. He didn't need this idiot acting like his friend and then acting like a guiltless jerk for no damned reason!

"You-"

"Are we all ready to begin?" England bit his tongue as China, their formal host, stood up at the front of the room and spoke to the assembled nations. Hong Kong was at the super-power's right, and from there it was a cascade of nations and personas. "I see we're missing someone, but that's no reason to waste time."

England's thoughts exactly. Casting off his tea and banishing the paper cup to the far corner of his allotted space, England uncapped his pen and looked down at the documents in front of him, trying to sink into the numbers. It was better than putting up with France or listening to China grin and wax poetic about whatever nonsense this conference was meant to accomplish. He wasn't bringing down his fire-wall and America wasn't here to dominate the topic of oil so the discussion of energy and information was completely ill-suited for whatever they were here for. In short, it was going to be like every other World Meeting they'd had since 1815: useless.

Italy had taken the seat across the table from England, and it was jarring to identify the Italian Tricolour with the brunette sitting in the chair. Almost two hundred years of European meetings had accustomed England the sight of two people representing the same nation, not one. And if he thought back to almost any meeting, then it had always been the younger brother taking the more active role in meetings, provided either one of them even bothered staying on task for more than ten minutes.

England would have to make the effort to say something to Italy before today was over, he was obligated. Italy just looked so out of place sitting there; he had his hands up in front of his face, skinny fingers tented and green eyes focused down on the folder in front of him. He looked so strange that for a moment England struggled to find the word or reason for it. He looked roughly handled and haggard, and even across the wide table England could see the little puckered lines around Italy's lips and eyes, even his thick dark hair was lacking something.

Old, that was it. Italy looked old…

China was still talking, and with a quick glance at the front to check on him, England estimated that they were only about half way through the introductory speech. It wasn't quite the same as what their bosses in another building were experiencing; humans put a great deal more emphasis on the pomp of these get-togethers. Nations knew better than to try fooling each other with exaggerated pleasantries.

Glancing back over across the table and ignoring the empty seat at his right, England's fingers itched to take up his tea again but he reminded himself of the fop on his left and resisted. He'd probably make Italy uncomfortable by staring at him, but it was just that much easier to handle than any of the alternatives.

England glanced over again just in time to be rewarded with a strange sight. Italy took a breath and raised his eyes from his page to the nation next to him, but before he could utter a word to Spain the other nation made a point of turning around in his seat to face China. Confusion pinched his ear but before England could get caught up in the mystery, France scoffed and picked up his own pen. The Frenchman shook his head with a soft "idiot" under his breath before scratching something on the white pages.

This put England in a bad position, because curiosity and obligation were two very, very difficult compulsions to ignore. And it was even worse since he knew he'd already spent his budding anger over France's stupid questions, so if he wasn't angry…

"What was that?" He muttered, looking down at his own papers after watching a hurt look cross Italy's face before fading away behind an indifferent mask. France was spinning his pen between two fingers when England heard him take a breath, but then the conference room door opened and he barely heard something about a fight that was silly that something-something-not-listening.

His first thought was America: it had to be him, didn't it? Who else could it- but America didn't have black hair, or green eyes, and he wasn't that old and that wasn't his briefcase either. And America didn't enter on the heels of the person who slipped inside either, his presence attracting first only a turn or two of the head, but as he spotted the empty seat to England's right…

No.

No, who the devil was this? A micro-nation? A new state? But he was positively European except that he was simply not. He came walking around the table with a firm stride and a jaunty step, and such foolish grin on his face that- NO.

No, America wasn't this stupid. Alfred would never do this to them. He knew his responsibilities as a nation, Alfred was not doing this to them.

"Terrible time trying to find this place," the American smiled his way through the words, his stress and tone all resembling some region of the continent England couldn't decode and place right now. "They sent me to the wrong complex. Doesn't make sense to split us up like this." England was staring out-right and as the man in the black suit took the nation's seat, and he saw Canada slowly lose all the colour in his face before the man even thought to wonder why the voice at the front of the room had stopped.

Human.

"I'm sorry, excuse me for being rude, but-" England commended himself for maintaining the ability to speak, because behind Canada Russia was slowly rising to his feet trying to get a better look. "-are you quite sure you're in the right place?"

The man looked terribly confused, and when he pulled a security badge with a familiar flag and state crest out of his jacket's inner pocket, England almost screamed in outrage.

That was America's pass. That was America's digital ID card for finding his way around hotels and conference centres and restaurants and car-rental companies. That was the badge issued by the government so the state could move freely without worrying about spending money or getting tangled up in the system. A hundred years ago such things had still existed, a thousand years ago they had been a crest stitched on a sleeve or branded on a shield.

That was a nation's pass.

"This is the Global Energy for Information conference, right? P-" This man was not a nation. He gave a name and England couldn't hold onto it because this man was not one of them. There was a buzzing noise in England's ear, loud and obnoxious, and when he felt a hand come down over his he wrapped his fingers through France's and squeezed as hard as he could.

He didn't break eye-contact with the human. His chest was hurting but he couldn't very well breathe. He barely heard China clear his throat and resume his speech while dismissing everything that had just happened.

The only words England understood clearly came from the American's mouth, and they were as follows:

"I'm here representing the United States, and I take it you're from London?"

England couldn't breathe…

I have plans for Mr. America.

I can't remember but I think I did name-drop Medvedev(Rus) and Harper(Can) in Final Loop, Napolitano(Ita) was actually a character (WHOOPS) and if it matters to you then sure, the PM England chewed out was Cameron. It follows that the American President should be Mitt Romney (because this story is set in 2012/2013, and the Democrats wouldn't run someone else against the incumbent Obama), but it's NOT. It's really really not because, um, well, you'll see.

Unfortunately it'll take a little while to get there. Although there's some F/A/C/E next chapter the Itabros kinda won the battle for the mid-20 chapters.

Ah well, leave a comment below and I'll see you in a week!