A/N: I recently reread the Financial Crisis Gangbang comic and it really destroyed me emotionally. I remember reading it back around 2010 or 2011, but that was before I'd come to terms with how much my own assault affected me and I still feel sick thinking about how my younger self sought out that kind of thing in her media. Now I understand why, of course, but I wasn't expecting it to hit me as hard as it did - and not in any good way.
The art is great, but the comic is not. So here's something softer but no less bittersweet.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: Past rape/noncon, implied/referenced suicide, PTSD, panic attacks
She is born in the eye of a hurricane, from the shrieking cry of a raven, cloaked in the juxtaposing darkness and bright of the sky and stars and absence of the moon.
She is not so much born as she is spirited, the will of empires long past and gone passing a fiery torch of willpower into the vessel of a girl with a soul too big for her human-passing body. Her cornflower eyes burn with the might of what seems like a thousand years, sun-kissed skin and deep ebony hair pulled into two braids that fall over shaking shoulders.
She is born in the abrupt silence that follows a scream, an ear-piercing shot that echoes painfully in her ears, in the pain of a people she can feel settling deep into her bones, her blood, her heart - and she begins to weep bitter tears onto fertile Kansas soil for a duty she was never meant to hold, for a duty that he entrusted so preciously to her.
The United States - Milena Amelia Jones - takes her first breath in the dying gasps of her predecessor's.
When the face of a country dies, it's not so much apparent as if an entire nation collapses and perishes.
Yet the representative, the avatar's loss is still keenly felt in the bodies of those they left behind.
The face of Canada knows this all too well, the sharp, throbbing pain in the middle of his chest unlike any he'd ever felt before - not when his own people were being killed, not in war, not… not like this…
As he clutched a hand to the wounded spot, mind flying into a panic as to what had happened - oh mon Dieu, what about my people, are my people safe?!- that he suddenly knows.
He knows what this is. He can't say if he would prefer a financial depression.
"A- America," he chokes out, breathed and confused and horrified - and he falls to his knees in the snow, the familiar form of Kumajirou pressing his nose into his dearest friend's cheek as he gasps a sob.
America was dead. His neighbor, brother, was gone.
Mexico feels a disturbing loss of something, one evening - but what was it?
Something had happened. Something was wrong. Yet the nation face couldn't quite put a finger on it as she numbly raises a hand to the sudden stabbing pain in her chest, hissing out a curse as she reaches for her rosary.
"What- what has happened…?" She wonders to herself, before a face appears in her mind, scared and hurt and resigned.
He couldn't have, right? He wouldn't. He was too proud to…
Yet the tears that well up, spill over her rosy cheeks unbidden, say otherwise.
Mexico massages the sore point on her sternum, suddenly feeling keenly the loss of her neighbor, her friend - and bitterly, she begins to pray.
It takes her a week to find one of them.
Her people are just as kind and helpful as she - he - remembers so fondly, and by the time she gets to Washington DC the blanks in her memories are beginning to be filled.
She's growing faster in stature every day, growing to fill the gigantic shoes she is to fill, growing with the unrestrained power of hundreds of years of being. She has to - she knows that if she remains small as she - they - were, something horrible could befall them again.
Something… something horrible…?
She remembers something. A small thing, but an important memory nonetheless, a dream. Her economy in shambles, her people desperate, scared, upset - and an entire world falling with her.
She remembers the hurt, the desperation, that he felt as he attempted to undo this devastation. (She can't remember feeling this way since 1929) Pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, dollars were saved and hoarded, her predecessor growing gaunt with illness and fear, fear for the future, for himself, for the world. He was running out of time, they were running out of time…?
Pain. Her head throbs with pain, and she pauses a moment to massage her temples with a wince. The White House looks as pristine as it ever did, the gardens flourishing with life and vibrancy that makes a fond smile spread across her weary face. The American flag flies proudly overhead, and her heart swells with love for her people. They may have suffered, but they pulled through, just like they always had.
Mustering all of her courage, the little nation strides through the gates as if they were nothing, nothing but paper to keep out the might of a god.
When he sees her for the first time, he feels his breath leave him.
What he was expecting, he hadn't had a clue. (He had) Something like amber waves, a proud golden hue that stood out painfully in his mind's eye, something like oceanic tides sparkling cheerfully in the summer sun, something like…
Something like him, his mind whispers. You want him.
I don't, he tries to argue. (He did)
But before him stands the form of a young woman in a plain white sundress and sandals, long curly ebony hair like the fertile lands of her country falling over her shoulders in braids tied with pretty grassy-hued ribbons that go well with her cerulean eyes (They're blue, so blue, just like-). When she smiles, the corners of her eyes creasing just so, a painful thrum beats in his chest, and suddenly he can't say even a word. (-him)
This is not America. (This is America)
Yet something in her calls out to him anyway, something innate, intimate, familiar, and he reaches back as if that would make the pain stop.
Her voice is subdued, careful, unlike the hallmark façade of her predecessor as she addresses him. "Hello, Canada. I've been wanting to meet you face to face."
"You are…?" He trails off, though he knows the answer without speaking it.
"Yes." She bows her head towards him in a show of deference. "I am the one he chose to succeed him. Please be patient with me."
Canada wants to sob. He wants to weep, to scream, to hit something, yet all he does instead is sink to his knees before this young woman. In a human's eyes, she looked to be sixteen or seventeen. Still too young of a face to brave what he had.
"He…" His voice fails him. He continues on anyway. "You… you have a lot of hardship ahead of you. How much do you remember?"
"Not a lot," she admits, twirling a braid around in her hands. "I remember our history, certain faces here and there, but… certain details are still murky."
He searches her deep blue eyes and finds nothing that he was expecting to see. There is no fear, no paranoia - just a deep-seated sadness, a resignation that hints she still feels what he did when he died.
Nausea churns his stomach, but he reaches for her hands. She lets him take them, a gentle squeeze to hide his shaking. "Mexico is here - she wants to see you too. She…" he hesitates, but puts on a smile to hide the heart that is still fracturing deep within. "... she really missed you, America."
America's face brightens in recognition of that name, and as he gets to his feet and walks with her to see the nation - and her president - a tear trickles down his face, the most emotion he will dare to show her.
The roles have changed now, after all - instead of the younger, he is now the older, and it's his duty to guide her and care for her, and protect her from the nations that drove his twin brother to die.
Mexico nearly cries when she sees the youthful girl before her. She's young - thankfully older than she was expecting - yet there's a fresh quality to this girl's face, something childlike, that rends her heart in twain.
America is cautious, quiet, and so much unlike the man whose shadow she now stands in. America had been pompous, selfish, and conceited - or so he chose to show the world, but Mexico knew him more than that. Canada knew him more than that. The girl before them now reminded her painfully of the friend she spent hours just talking with on his veranda, the North American sunset setting the sky ablaze with brilliant shades of red and gold, bathing them in its comforting glow.
She still couldn't decide if that was relieving or devastating.
Yet she would set her own feelings aside, for this new face needed guidance. She needed protection, even from the rage that swirled in these countries' blood, from the hurt and anger directed towards those that had done this to him. She needed a friend more than she needed an avenger, and for now that was what she would be. Maria would be the friend Alfred had needed in the darkness of the recession, yet shamefully never got.
She would protect this young woman with her life, so help her God.
Don't go. Don't go back, please.
A voice that is not hers kept pleading to her. She could hear it in her dreams, in her nightmares, when she couldn't sleep at night…
Don't go back to Russia.
It couldn't be him, reaching through the veil, could it? He wasn't as grounded to this land as she was, as their mother was, or so she'd thought. He was her, and she was him - whatever ceased to be the man of Alfred F. Jones became Milena A. Jones, and whatever mind and soul they still shared was proof enough of that.
And yet she couldn't help but wonder; where do dead avatars go? Nobody could tell her - or, nobody would tell her. She knew their mother had passed on to the next life, as had ancient nations of old, but America had been cut down long before his time, and in his place was her.
A part of her couldn't help but feel bitter towards him. Wherever she went, whatever nations she met, they stared at her as if seeing a ghost. In some ways perhaps she was a living ghost, a resurrection of a man loved or despised by all who knew him - but she was not him, and she didn't know these faces, only names. She didn't know what relations he had to these avatars, yet they approached her with familiarity as if she was supposed to slip back into his persona.
And what had he left behind? A country in the throes of a crippling recession that had only just managed to pull itself back up, a new president and his family that looked at her with sympathy or mourning, (Stop looking at me like that) a people that looked to her to solve their problems. (I never asked for this)
What had been his office was blocked off with nauseating black-and-yellow police tape, and something like a cold emptiness rendered her flesh with goosebumps from neck to foot. Something about that room screamed at her to get away, of danger, and don't look at me go away I hate you I'm sorry please don't touch-
She blinked, and the pit of anxiety that had settled at the bottom of her gut opened its dark, unforgiving maw and replaced the dreadful whimpering of a memory at the back of her mind's eye.
Canada and Mexico had grilled her for weeks over this meeting, their faces unexpectedly wrought with worry and surprise over her decision to attend. She had just gotten the hang of the paperwork, the meetings between her and her bosses, and the general feel of her nation weighing on her shoulders; the least she could do, they had insisted, was give herself half a year to fully immerse herself into the role she was born to play.
Yet the world never slept. Economies never slept, the will of the people never slept, and neither should she, she surmised. If he had managed it, then so could she. (She ignores the tingling feeling in the back of her head chastising her for that overconfidence)
The weather outside is mild, pleasant, even, for a Russian winter. She knows winter like she knows her history, Alaska's wilderness and untamed beauty twinkling in her eyes like constellations in a winter sky.
Two nations are at her back, and at one time that might have caused her to spiral. Yet she is not him, and she squares her shoulders, praying for all the strength she has left in this more fragile body.
The door opens. There's a chill in the air, an unease that permeates her very bones from the moment she steps into that room. If it wasn't for the reassuring hands on both shoulders, America feels she might melt right through the floor.
The G20 summit turns to face the three newcomers, riddled with confusion and surprise and shock - and horror, a deep horror that she feels seep into her vessel that makes her squirm.
And she knows.
Her knees buckle under the sudden weight of the realization that manifests itself into her head, gripping Canada and Mexico's arms with a wheeze of distress. She knows, she knows these faces, she knows these-!
Canada steadies her while Mexico whispers soothing words into her ear, and the two coax her into walking to her seat.
Nations she vaguely recalls good relations with begin to approach, faces twisted in concern, reaching out - but Canada blocks their touch with a warning glance, and she finally regains the ability to speak.
"H- hello," she stammers despite herself, vision narrowing and heart pounding in her chest at the familiar face of a blond in green at her peripheral several meters away. "I'm the United States of America. Please treat me well as I settle into the role my predecessor left me."
"Oh dear, you seem quite young for such a big nation," Hungary, her mind supplies, frets over her, clasping her hands together. "How are you settling in? It's overwhelming, is it not?"
"Very," she answers, and she can feel her body growing rigid as one of them begins to approach. Which one is it? She doesn't want to look - she can't look.
Ireland is not here - why was he not here? She needs her uncle - and her breath begins to quicken, yet the feeling of a winter jacket over her shoulders, warm and smelling of strong coffee and syrup, is enough to ground her with its weight on her body.
"Canada," she begins, shaking.
"I know." His voice is a low murmur, yet its buzzing in her ear was pleasant and comforting. "You don't have to be here."
"I want to."
Her eyes glimpse them, and her body begins to shake all over again.
"Don't look," he instructs, gently tilting her chin towards his face.
"I'm…" what is she? Angry? Hurt? Scared? Confused? "I feel it. I feel him. He's… he's so…" her lip quivered, "he's scared, Mattie…"
The nickname slips out on its own and her brother straightens, and a piercing stare is sent to a couple of the countries still eyeing them down.
"They can't hurt you, they won't, I won't allow it." His voice trembles, though not from anxiety. His indigo eyes narrow behind his glasses, and the frames flash in the light as he tilts his head. "You're safe with us, America."
"Those pendejos won't lay a finger on you, cariño," Mexico soothes. She runs a hand over her braids, and the girl tries not to flinch at the contact.
She tries her best not to feel the crippling, icy-cold hand of fear that grips her throat and squeezes it tight. She tries her best not to openly stare at them, with all of the fear and hurt and anger that boils in a body too small to contain all the feelings of what they did to him. She tries her best to act like the grown-up nation that she is, but the weight of the world on her shoulders makes her feel like a child rather than a world superpower, like the newly-discovered landmass to the Europeans who took her from her mother, plucked her from North America's loving arms and raised her to become a soldier, forced her to mature faster than she needed.
She tries her best. But today, her best doesn't feel like it's enough.
America's shadow looms long over her, devouring her in its despair, and she crumbles beneath the weight of the man who left the world behind.
A/N: The new America is of Native American descent because screw the rules and I love her, that's why (also because this was based off of What a Way to Fall by Mistress Kizuna).
Man, it's been a while since I've been in the fandom. Even though it's pretty much dead now (and that comic is from like thirteen years ago holy shit).