Life's a Circus

June, 2233

Outside England's house, the rain threw itself upon a sleeping city, thick clouds forming a dark and howling shroud over London. Now past the phase of dry winter and spring, London was entering its own kind of monsoon season – summers that drowned cities with storm after storm. It was early morning; England sat on a sofa in his living room, nursing the same coffee that had kept him awake all night.

OK, He thought, because he had nothing else to think about, Let's work it out, once more. He took a few deep breaths.

Right – on one side there's me. On the other side there's France. His friend.

Put like that, it seemed rather simple. And with him there's Edelheim, Italy, Baltica, Poland, and pretty much the rest of Europe. Except Switzerland, of course. If his intelligence was to be trusted, then Edelheim and Italy planned to send weaponry to France, support the war from the side-lines, and back up the others in the event of his invasion. Poland and Baltica would be on the battlefield itself, alongside France. And Asia was watching his movements on a hair trigger, ready to strike if he put a foot out of bounds on their territory.

England's coffee was cold. No matter how he envisioned the situation, it remained undeniably terrible. He rested his head in his hands, doing his best to contain a wail of despair, not at the lack of options, but the fact that the easiest one was glaring him in the face: he could surrender, and escape the problem entirely.

But then – then those other greedy nations would have his weapon, and they would certainly use it against him. How could he possibly risk that? The weapon had given him the most stable position of power he'd had in centuries… Then there was the undeniable fact – England was never the sort to back down. His pride would not let him do that, in any situation. When had he ever given himself up without a fight?

The only other option was to go to battle. England glanced at the ceiling, desperately keeping his emotions in control. Keep calm and carry on. He had gone for very long periods with no allies. He hadn't succumbed then. It was certainly not the first time he had gone against France, and right now he was the most powerful nation in Europe, even without a mighty empire. Then there was that blasted weapon...

England turned his head to the window, plastered with water and fallen leaves. His last thought before surrendering to sleep was a sturdy surety that he could, if nothing else, get out of this war in one piece.

...

"So, Switzerland has decided to join your side? Good for him."

France nodded, and England made a quiet and thoughtful sound. There was a pause, as England stared, not at France but at the Union Jack on the wall behind him. Nothing was said, for a moment. The tension had not been reduced in the slightest, with the declaration of war.

"I will try my hardest," France suddenly said, "To be as hard and rough on you as possible. My allies can say the same."

"As can I," England responded. "And, considering both of our positions, that works out better in my favour, if I say so myself." He did not believe any of the words coming out of his mouth, but he faked it convincingly. France nodded, tightly and crisply.

"I know. I do not underestimate your abilities... Or your limits." France was bitter, and this came through in his accent more than anything. His 'R's became more elongated, his vowels more pronounced. England leaned in close toward his enemy, releasing his last empathetic words.

"I beg you to reconsider declaring war on me. I will not hesitate to use all the technology I can. Think of your people, the danger you are putting them in."

France's stare hardened. "I am not a weak state, or a handful of anarchists like the Muscovites. Even your superior technology will not level or bring down my country."

"Oh?" England suddenly found himself smiling broadly, his body naturally filling the mould of confidence. "I can't wait to test that theory."

The colour very nearly drained from France's face; his eyes widened a notch and a few beads of sweat glistened on his brow. England chose to ignore these signs of weakness. He stilled his expression and made his final point. "We'll fight in Africa."

France was clearly taken aback. "Africa? You want to use that dead wasteland of a continent for our battlefield?"

England nodded. "Yes. Think, France. We will both be ruthlessly sending out attacks. Africa itself is damaged beyond repair, so no amount of our weaponry could affect it. I would hate to ruin the soil of either of our lands, if our aim is purely to fight each other and each other's men." He offered a smile, but one that he hoped was cold and pragmatic. He didn't want France to assume any signs of weakness in him. "I thought Kenya would be a good place to start."

France, to his credit, had now schooled his expression likewise. "I cannot fault that idea. We will assemble in Nairobi in one week for our first battle, then." France walked toward the door. "Au revoir, England. I will see you on the battlefield. Prepare for the heat, why don't you?" And with a door-slam, the man was gone.

After a long silence of England standing alone in the house, he gave himself an order.

Forget it. Forget your morals and humanities. Forget your emotions and your friendships. All that matters now is that you win. Throw yourself into battle, don't even think about hesitating. Ruthless. Reckless. Relentless. The three 'R's – the keys to victory. Forget everything and you'll have all of Europe at your feet...

What was he famous for? Bravery, that was what. Bravery, stubbornness and pride. Whether if it was suicidal guts like the Light Brigade, 600 in the valley of death, or true heroics like the Battle of Britain, or the Religion wars. He could be brave if he wanted, now. He could charge into battle like always, ruthless, reckless and relentless. No cowardice. No mercy. No restrictions. The African desert stretches for miles.

His mind was not on the millions of times his cowardice had kept him at bay – how often he had sat and watched without a care, while other nations scorched and screamed and begged asylum. He was not thinking about Iraq, Wei Yao, or Panem. All he could see was the deadened, defeated look of the Muscovites as he choked out his last breath of polluted fumes.

England felt a small, cruel and excited smile work its way toward his lips. He felt giddy. He couldn't see very clearly. He smiled more and more: it was so clear now. He was going to win all of this, he could rip them all to pieces and destroy them with ease, his weapon could engulf anything, if he wanted it to – He closed his eyes and let himself breathe happily and deeply.

A voice within him that was not his own screamed something. It's gonna be great!

Damn right, it would.

...

The military policy of the three 'R's was easy to grasp, easy to force on malleable citizens. It was, after all very basic, as was the plan. They would be sending out Glucose Volanticus attacks throughout the first battle against the Swiss, the Baltics and the Poles. England could orchestrate as troops fought and offices at home sent the missiles to major cities, hopefully weakening the nations' morale. Other than that, and the soldier formation, the only plan was to fight as viciously as possible. The more experienced soldiers were equipped with recently designed grenades that held some things in common with ancient chemical weapons, but bore more resemblance to small but effective Glucose Volanticus, to be used on field. The English Army were ready and prepared.

After arriving in Nairobi and having a short day of rest, the troops, led by England himself, marched to the battlefield itself, alone. As they had suspected, there was virtually no sign of civilisation, certainly nothing to indicate any national identity. They passed the odd hut, the occasional kilometre-wide settlement, but the place was hauntingly desolate. On their designated field, there was hardly any vegetation or wildlife at all, and the ground did not rise or lower in any way. It stood, a flat dust plane of a desert. The heat was not as intense as England remembered, but it was hot enough for the soldiers to start sweating in their heavy jackets, and for the wavering and lilting breeze (echoing so melancholic around the walls of heat in this dry, dry desert, not a puddle of water anywhere) to be a cool relief. The opposing troops were nowhere to be seen.

Half an hour passed. Some top-halves of uniform were taken off and tied round the waists of the hot soldiers, but England stayed, alert and fully clad, hands gripping his gun, his grenades, his programmer and his sense of control.

Then – after forty-five still minutes of near silence and no action, figures started to appear on the horizon, marching toward the bare and unblemished field. Slowly, painfully slowly they appeared to England and he could identify them – Switzerland leading an army of buttoned up military men, each armed with a rifle and apparently nothing else. The Poles and Baltics were led by their corresponding nations, blending in with each other in their similar complexions and uniforms. Their weaponry seemed more advanced; they were armed with miniature grenades and guns, though it was hard to see if they carried anything else. And then – England felt as though a cold stone were falling into his stomach – a familiar, brightly coloured band of troops began to appear. France. He's not supposed to be here! That meant he was even more outnumbered. Why would he come? England thought bitterly. Damned cheat! He'd like nothing more than to see me fail… There was nothing to do now, but follow the same plan and hope for the best. The armies assembled before the English – outnumbering them horrendously – and prepared themselves, briefly. The first shot was awaited.

Then – with a deafening POW a shot was fired from a Swiss rifle, and the battle began with a roar. England remained near the back at first, fighting off any attacks with his gun and aiming for clusters with his grenades but mainly programming attacks on the nations from home, giving the special pre-planned orders to send the missiles to certain cities. There was no way to send them to France, without having known he'd be at the battle. A last piece of conscience spoke up in England – one that claimed he would never have the guts to send such a weapon to France anyway – but there was no time to dwell on these thoughts. He screamed orders into his earpiece, the words fire falling loosely from his lips, the power filling him saccharinely.

Around him, the battle raged, furious and vile. The English were pumped with an empty desire to win, all respect and morals zapped out of them by propaganda and money, causing them to fight with a demonic strength and spirit. It made England proud to watch them. The enemies were obviously prepared for the worst, defending plenty of moves with great skill, and sending out attacks that matched the English's – simply by numbers, if not strength. Without England's notice, bodies began to litter the plane; as men dropped out of sight they seemed to lose their tangibility as well as their lives. The only thing that truly mattered was the battle, the thrill of defending his survival – and here he was, right in the heat of it.

A small beep came from the programmer. The first lot of missiles were all out, and the second were not ready yet. He couldn't send any more Glucose Volanticus, at least for now. In the meantime, he would have to use his gun... No problems there. Now he could move properly to the frontlines. With a sneer, he sent a single shot into the sky, just for the pleasure of watching the bullet disappear into blue haze. It's been too long, England decided, when was the last time I got to enjoy myself like this?

"England?"

Don't listen! Don't listen; you're having far too much fun! Using a gun was far quicker and easier than the weapon. Not as mentally satisfying, but good, nonetheless.

"England –!"

POW. POW. Two more hits, two more unsupported puppets to fall to the ground. Another beep from his programmer told England that the next lot of missiles were ready. Perfection. He still continued to shoot, grin widening with each spurt of blood, with each cloud of smoke he saw rising from the battlefield and as he saw his enemies crumple to the ground, and did he know that voice?

"What –"

He did know it. He glared into the air in front of him, gripping his gun with more strength than was necessary and released bullet after bullet, again and again.

"Are you –"

Couldn't that voice just shut up?! Where was the man, anyway? He was on this battlefield. He wasn't England. England had to be fighting him, then, so why couldn't he see him?

"Doing –"

POW. POW. POW, POW, POW. The guns were loud as ever, but the voice still rang out. The man must be close. England held his opponents in his steely glare, still grinning as much as he could, still braced for attack – but they were lowering their weapons. Baltica's piping voice rang out; he was calling his men back to a retreat. England raised his gun to their backs, an order to leave no man alive waiting on his tongue – but it was strange, he had to concede, that he should suddenly become the only one sending out attacks. Even his own men were quieting, and the other side now stood silently, their eyes fixed, not on England but something behind him…

"England?!"

He turned, jerkily, gun still held in his arms. As soon as the man came into his view, the whole African battlefield fell silent as a rock.

"What are you doing, England?"

England's hands shook. He opened his mouth to say something, but words completely failed him. Instead, he turned away from the asker, still holding his gun as tightly as he could, and surveyed the landscape. He took in the sights of utter tear and destruction, blows inflicted by him and him only. The blood didn't cover the area. The sand had absorbed or covered most of it. What he could see very clearly was the amount of dead soldiers – dead by his own, the weapon or just by all those bullets. Baltica, Poland, Switzerland held together, sick and gasping. The weapon truly did take their toll on them. Only France was not shaking, instead he stood gaping in amazement and recognition at this man – this one man who may well have been their saviour, this one man who could stop England...

England looked from the dead field to the man, then back to the field. The soft wasteland breeze moaned, and England shook his head, as a single low exhalation of a laugh escaped his chapped lips. His eyes were slowly clearing of the fog, he saw now – truly saw what was happening, what he was doing. His eyes were downcast, and he could see now that all the dead were looking at him, they looked at England with all those expressions he hated – repulsion, fear, greed, pity. There was no way out now – he had known from the start that it was a dead end to run into the war like that, and now he found himself up against it.

Look what I've gone and done. Look at how I've messed things up.

England turned around again, to face the man. His face was oddly made up, weird patterns lining the features that were frozen with shock and horror. The face brought an old, familiar stinging to England's eyes but he forced it back, instead smiling. He shook from the effort of swallowing the lump in his throat, but it was too much. The more he looked into the man's eyes, the harder it became, and before he could register and arrest himself, tears were falling onto the dust in front of him, swallowed immediately by the greedy earth. He looked down at his gun. When he finally felt that he was able to, he spoke, loudly and clearly.

"Well, well... Fancy seeing you here, America."

He hadn't noticed. He had been too busy, doing something stupid and senseless to realise that he'd changed, despite the many times he'd said - promised – he wouldn't. He was more than a monster, or a demon. He was a nation. He had power.

He looked back at the damage, again. With a heaving sigh, he brought the heavy gun to his own ragged head, eyes still gorging on the face of his friend.

Pow.

Not smiling anymore, his last thought was of how quiet the bullet was, and how painful.