CHAPTER 8 – Return of the Hero

After around two hours, all the liquid blood on the dust had evaporated. The heat was ferocious, and the fumes left from artillery and Glucose Volanticus fire hung, scorching the air. The stains left behind were more brown than red, and could have been mistaken, from a distance, for darker sand.

After around three hours, every corpse had been fumbled away, every soldier gone, except England, who stayed on the ground: a dark, sunburnt figure with half his face shredded. He lay, unmovable, and allowed himself to be consumed by the dirt and fumes and heat.

After around two weeks, the ground was empty again.

In the same moment as a bullet ripping through England's skull, every unit of Glucose Volanticus was launched in random directions. Most landed somewhere in the Atlantic ocean. Two landed in the continent, one in France and one in the Netherlands. Five landed in Great Britain. In the weeks that followed the devastation, the politicians and department leaders would never be seen associating the catastrophe with what some cruel journalists dubbed a "national suicide".

Panem stood uncomfortably in France's base. There were seats available, but France was still standing and Panem wasn't sure if he would seem rude if he sat down. After centuries of not talking to a single other nation, sometimes you forget what the proper thing is, in other countries.

"Please," came France's awful, thick voice, "sit down. You must be tired… Such a long trip…"

Panem sat. France placed his palms on the table, and leaned forwards onto them, letting his head droop, but he did not take a seat. Panem heard a soft hiccup, and felt panicked, because he didn't know how to talk to France, let alone comfort him, and also because he had hoped he would be allowed to break down for once. Right now, there was too much happening, too many sudden long-forgotten emotions clambering inside him, for him to truly feel anything. However much he wanted to.

France lifted a hand to wipe his face. "I thought," he choked, "I thought I would be able to talk him down. We were supposed to w-win, and I was supposed to – to put him back into order..." he raised his head, and Panem could see that his features were twisted, his eyelids fluttering frantically. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to see this."

Panem sighed. I'll let myself feel later, then. "Not your fault," he assured.

France's eyes suddenly brimmed over, and he sat down in the seat opposite Panem's, shoulders trembling and sobs thrumming out from his chest, soft and steady as a heartbeat. Panem reached over awkwardly, to pat him on the arm. He tried to see it from France's perspective – having to watch a friend go mad, after so many years of staying sane together, after weathering the storm hand in hand, and then to see that immense self-destruction. Where have I seen that before?

There was an image in Panem's mind. A young, determined president-to-be with stark-white hair, looking up at him with an expression that said We'll be heroes together! Then forming a new, better regime, a country shaped like a wheel, with thirteen spokes and one central Capitol. Then watching helplessly through the generations, president after president, as order became oppression, and those bright, hopeful eyes sank into merciless hollows...

France suddenly looked up from his hand, his expression hard. "Panem," he said, as if he had only just noticed him. "Why are you here?" His eyes were foggy with grief, but now they cleared up, leaving a sharp wariness.

Panem swallowed. "I was tired of being separated from the rest of the world. I heard that there would be a… meeting here. In Kenya." Not. A fucking. Battle.

"You are a monster." There was no rage; the tone resembled more a quiz master confirming an answer. "Your own children…"

"We don't do that anymore." It was true, and yet the words smacked of shame. "We uprooted that government." He knew this was not enough reparation. The other countries would not simply forgive a century of cruelty, there were disciplinary actions that must be taken, Panem must be judged… All this, he understood, would be deserved, and yet his skin prickled. He allowed it to; if he felt the fear but still pushed onwards, that was a sign of bravery. He could, at least, be brave.

France closed his eyes. "Alright. So, you're back."

"Aren't. Aren't you going to… Do something?"

"Do what?" France gave a barely perceptible smile. "Demand reparations? Your actions never affected me."

"But, you just said…"

"Yes, you were a monster. As you have clarified, you are no longer one." He sighed, an old and weary sigh. "Let's leave it at that." Panem felt ashamed of the immense relief he felt at these words. He deserved punishment. "You must be very confused as to what to do next, mustn't you?"

"I want to help." The words felt weak on his tongue, somehow archaically naïve. Perhaps "help" was a concept that would be accepted a century ago, but now? He had just watched a nation kill himself on the spot. Was there any kind of precedent to this? What was the appropriate response? "I'm sure there's a lot that needs sorting out, after… Well. After that." He had a faint idea now, of the circumstances leading up to England's death. There had been a weapon, a disagreement over said weapon, and somewhere in it all, England had lost his sanity and life.

In the silence, France bowed his head, leaving his full head of hair visible, dirty and tangled, but still, in its own way, elegant. His shoulders were not shaking with tears, but his hands were. A disturbing thought occurred to Panem.

"France," he said, "England is gone. His country is empty. We need to do something, don't we?" France didn't look up. "That – that weapon thing you were talking about – Glucose... Glucose Valerie? You know..."

"Glucose Volanticus."

"Yeah, that. Didn't you say that it was the thing that started the whole war?"

France's twitching fingers went still. "It was destroyed."

Panem nodded. "But the plans weren't. How much of a threat do you think the weapon would pose, if it were ever rebuilt?"

France looked up at him. "I can hardly imagine it. Particularly in… A dead country…"

"We've got to get the plans out of England, France. You know we do."

France wiped his face and said, "Before anything worse happens. You are right, Panem." He faltered. "I mean. Of course, if you are actually… If you don't just want to... You are needed in your country, are you not?"

"They can manage for a little while," Panem decided. "I'm in, for this. As long as we destroy them the moment we've got 'em. You're not… We're not having another England."

France gave him a humourless smile. "In case you have forgotten, Pain," – and the foreign version of his name oozed, another splash of the outside world – "there are other countries still out there. Still starving, still desperate for control. If anyone would take the weapon for themselves, it's them."

…..

There were parts of the border between Switzerland and Italy that were not policed. If you knew where to sneak, you could simply take a step, and find yourself in an entirely different country. One step was all it took, and the earth was different, the rules were different, the very air was different.

None of this mattered, as far as the warmongers were concerned. They weren't bothered by earth, or air, and certainly not rules. They dragged themselves as an army, from the very top of Italy to the very bottom of Switzerland. They walked with the best weapons they could scavenge: rocks tied with rope, pieces of farm fencing wrapped with barbed wire, and variations of a long piece of wood with sharp implements hammered into its flesh.

"Guerra! Guerra!"

A settlement lay a kilometre ahead. They pulled their pieces of metal and tree, readying their arms for attack. Then they ran forwards and screamed.

"Guerra! Guerra!"

Energy buzzed through bone and muscle, as legs thundered across the countryside, feet kicked mud up in the air, and arms holding heavy instruments pushed against the wind. Euphoria seeped through the skin, as the first blows were landed, as the warmongers unleashed all rage through blessed, beautiful violence.

"Savage, isn't it?"

Edelheim clenched his fists. "It's out of order. How dare you allow your people to commit these crimes." He kept his eyes lowered, unable to look at Italy, unable to look at his open maroon eyes.

Schilacci chuckled, "You'll talk to me about order? You leave your country for one moment, and the place descends into madness. You're the only German who still believes in the notion of order."

Edelheim was sure Italy was gazing at him pityingly, so kept his eyes down.

"I don't allow these thugs to do as they wish out of negligence. I know exactly what I'm doing. I'm the only one who knows what they're doing. Those savages, they are my people's voice. The voice of the whole world. Guerra."

"But why?" Edelheim said, and he couldn't keep the bite out of his tone. He looked up at Schilacci, but Italy cut into his line of sight, a shock of auburn.

Italy said, "They're bored."

"I want England's weapon," said Schilacci.

"England is dead."

"Making his weapon fair game, wouldn't you think? Say you'll support me."

Edelheim pondered Schilacci, giving his overflowing body a long, harsh look. No one could doubt what he had done for Italy. He had opened his eyes, dark reddish-brown, and he'd brought him out of depression in more ways than one. In a horrible secret way, this made Edelheim's insides squirm, but not as much as Schilacci's smile did. He took too much pleasure out of what he did, Edelheim reasoned, which always indicated a lack of professional approach.

The voices tinkled into the office once more: "Guerra! Guerra!" Edelheim was no fool, and he knew exactly why Schilacci had brought them out here to watch the warmongers, why he chose now to discuss the plans for Glucose Volanticus. It wasn't blackmail, as such: just a reminder of how much Edelheim depended on Italy.

"Yes. Of course I will support you." It's not so terrible. And anyway, it's not as if England has any need for the weapon. Sometimes, a strong ally was all you needed, and one strong weapon. If Edelheim had just a fraction of the full potential of Glucose Volanticus, the Weimar Project could get fully underway, and the German people could have respect for order once more…

"Good." Schilacci's lips stretched out. "Now say you'll submit. Say you will fall in line under Italy, and me."

No, was on Edelheim's tongue, that's too much. His cheeks burned, and he muttered with as much dignity as he could muster, "If I refuse?"

Schilacci looked out at the scenery, at the distant village from which flames were starting to rise. "It would be sad if those savages made it past your borders, wouldn't it?"

Edelheim choked out a laugh. "You think I cannot handle a few men with sticks?" Why on earth did I question him?

"I'm sure you can. Your people, on the other hand?" Schilacci grinned, and shook his head, as if in sympathetic distress. "I'm not even saying I will invade you, should you turn your back on me. Or that I will in any way encourage an invasion by the warmongers. Italy simply will not protect or aid you in any way. And once the most powerful weapon known to man is with us…" He raised a finger, in anticipation, waited for the cry –

"GUERRA!"

Schilacci smiled. "When that happens, whose side do you really want to be on, my dear Germania?"

President Paylor was waiting outside the government building when Panem returned. It was dark in his country already, when the Sun had been burning furiously in Africa just an hour earlier. Panem tried to shake the confusion out of his head, deciding to re-figure-out time-zones at a later date. He shook Paylor's hand, felt how cold it was. How long had she stood here? "Thanks for waiting."

"You took a long time. Where were you?" Panem opened his mouth, thinking he had the story right there to tell, thinking he knew how to recount the nation's first trip to the world outside with an appropriate level of professionalism. He felt his throat closing up, and knew he was wrong.

"H-he. He's dead…"

Paylor furrowed her brow. "Who's dead? Not – not one of the scouts? I thought they all came back without –"

"England. England's dead." His father, and mentor, and rival, and closest friend. The only one who ever really loved him, other than Canada. Now, without the weight of France sobbing his eyes out, or the heat of Africa making it all feel so surreal, Panem could feel the situation exposing itself to him in ways he hadn't remembered were possible. It was as if splashes of bright colours were invading a landscape of muted shades – violent purples and reds, so familiar, but eye-scorching in their brightness, against the faded echoes of before.

He didn't even notice that tears were dribbling down his face until Paylor gave a small gasp. "Oh, Panem, I'm… Shall we come inside? You've had a long trip. You need some rest." The uncertainty in her tone was endearing. "You people do rest, right?"

Panem shuddered, closed his eyes, and slowly took back control over his body. He dried his eyes. "Thank you, Ms President. But, really, I'm fine." Because behind the ebbing waves of grief, he could feel something else, something awakened. Through the two rebellions, Panem had felt little more than vague interest in a sea of apathy. The isolation had buried a world of feeling that was now pouring out into him, and for the first time in a hundred years, Panem felt alive.