Chapter 4 – Dreams

First the whistles come, and the Muscovite soldiers raise their heads, searching for the source, looking up to the sky in unison. Banded together, with such an expression of universal confusion, they look like animals, cornered without realising it, about to be trapped. A few tentatively raise their weapons. The noise increases, the whistles sound more like screams, but – England remembers – this means that the bomb hasn't landed yet. Glucose Volanticus is getting closer. Some Muscovites start to retreat, all the generals too captivated by the situation to notice, but the nation himself stays.

Then – when England is sure that his eardrums are going to implode from the noise – the whistling stops, leaving a deadly echo.

He breathes in, closes his eyes. A soft thump is heard at his feet.

And then his eyes open to a sea of red. Screams fill the air around as the powerful explosion rends the land in two. He stares, paralyzed with horror, but charged with a strange exhilaration. His eyes slide up to The Muscovites himself.

The effect of his wonderful, glorious super weapon is astonishing. The former power before him wobbles on his legs a little, his mouth slowly opening to let out a moan. Blood drips from his ears, his mouth, his nose and he grips onto his gun for support. His scarf is dark crimson and his whole form trembles violently in a way that England has never seen before. Then an awful gasp wrenches from the Russian, this time causing him to properly double over, drop his gun and spit blood onto the ground, ugly black against the white. Another hit, in another part of the nation. That was what he planned, right?

England kneels, to get a better look at the eyes of the spluttering man, eyes wide and horrified, yet cold as the air around them. A curl of satisfaction rises in his gut, unbidden. He hardens himself against it. "Speak."

It's all he can think of to say. He regrets it later. Muscovites opens his mouth to speak.

"It's truly a work of genius."

What? That's not what he says. Not at all, right? "No. Say that again, the right way."

"It has the ability to cause extreme devastation – perhaps even wipe out a nation."

The whistles start again and all goes white. When the tables and chairs appear, England does not notice it. The state simply shifts; one moment it is blinding white, the next he is standing – and has always been standing – in a room, with a man in a scarf facing him.

The faucet is raised high above his head, and England recoils. The man should not be smiling so much, not when his clothes hang off him, trailing stained shreds on the carpet, not when his eyes aren't even focussed. "Now..." says the grin. "Become one, da –"

BANG. Suddenly, the smile slips open, the jaw goes slack in a silent scream, and the eyes remain unfocussed, but there is a universe of pain, physical pain, building up in them. England can see it. He walks to his enemy, who has begun to shudder.

"Yes... How does it feel? Speak."

The man gargles, but doesn't speak. England narrows his eyes. "No. Say that again, the right way."

The eyes of the dying man before him glow a little. They change. They go red, green, orange, brown, finally resting on bright blue. Something vile twists in England's stomach. Then the blue eyed man does speak.

"Damn you England! Do you have any idea what I'm going through here?!" A soft whistle starts to sound in the distance.

England freezes. The man continues and the plane shifts once more – the surroundings of the two nations disappear, they were never there to start with. The whistling is getting louder and louder. England tries to grip a table that isn't there anymore for support, tries to block out the noise, because this voice hasn't sounded in his head for years.

"You didn't just watch your brother die, slowly! You didn't feel what I did. That horror at the unfairness, that true and utter betrayal of trust. They KILLED him, England... Oh, Christ, England, they killed him..."

The words spill from England's mouth. He knows this conversation off by heart.

"I... I loved Canada as well..." The man before him places a fist on the floor, and pushes himself up on it, shakily, but surely.

"No. You barely even knew his name." How is that man standing? How is he? He was spitting blood a moment ago. "What happened to us all, England? How did everyone become this... Heartless? It could be us next, you or me. I could stop caring. What will you do if I become like this – someone who can stand by and watch as a country dissolves itself?"

England turns away, shivering in dread. "No, no, no, I'm not saying it, I'm not –"

"Yes..." The man before him hisses the word. The eyes are no longer blue. He advances, step by step; drip by drip of blood still clinging to him and for the first time in that long – England feels fear –

"You know what you are, da? You are more than what I thought you were. I underestimated you sorely, you..." The man's hands are around his throat and the whistling is deafening –

Now England finds himself in a quiet garden, all alone. His own, in fact, his own as it was centuries ago. There isn't a blade out of place – each hedge neatly trimmed, each flower bed kept in perfect condition and bursting with roses - beautiful, British roses. He is sitting, he notices, on a patio outside his house, at a garden table with a pot of tea. Ivy crawls up the walls of the house behind. It is not a grand house, but it is by no means a cottage, just a simple, sophisticated detached suburban house. England decides that it is the best house in the world.

The war is over, and there is nothing to worry about. England sighs and shakes the dust and dirt out of his hair. He strives to ignore his own outfit – his war uniform, slightly spattered with red – and succeeds by concentrating on a now gently blowing breeze. The tea in the pot ripples.

Is there anyone there? He has to hear a voice. Any voice.

"Speak."

No sound, except the breeze. He does not say the next line just yet. He waits, anticipating. Then the sound of whistles starts up, fast and loud. Panic jumps through him, before he reminds himself that the weapon won't hit him; it is aimed at the Muscovites. Those whistles won't hit him, he knows that, but still he doesn't like it.

"No. Say that again, the ri–"

Then the whistles and the weapon hit him, assaulting like a bucket of cold water.

Now it's just darkness. He can't see a man in a scarf, and there is no whistle.

But there is something there, he knows it.

"Speak."

"Ha-ha… It's sweet…"

The funny thing is, this is the right way. But still…

"No. Say that again, the right way."

It takes a while for the darkness to be able to respond. The sound of spitting blood arrives, but still no whistling. England is glad.

"You know what you are, da?"

Yes, he thinks. Yes, I know what I am.

"You are more than what I thought you were. I underestimated you sorely, you monster."

There. That's it. That's all he wanted to hear.

"Corporal?"

"Yes, Mr England, sir?"

"Sir alone is fine. Was there any further word from the Muscovites? Any of them?"

"Um, no, sir. Total silence, ever since we came back."

"So, two days, then."

"Yes, sir."

"And… And the place itself?"

"Deserted, sir. Not a soul, or any living matter as far as any of our infrared scans are concerned."

"Deserted."

"If you were going to ask me what a dead country looked like, sir…"

"Alright. Alright, I understand."

"… Sir?"

"That will be all, Corporal."