So we're talking about the revolutionary war in school (AGAIN) and it gives me a reason to doodle sad-faced Iggies (what's the plural of Iggy anyway?) in the margins of all my notes. My civics teacher (who's pretty awesome, though not as awesome as Prussia) actually asked me today why there were a bunch of zombie trees on my paper. Apparently my Iggy-drawing skills have much to be desired...even though everything is funnier when I draw with my eyes closed.

I have no idea why I just typed that. Have more insight on my life, audience! \(^J^)/

By the way, neurons don't actually glow, but nations are special. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I know nothing about Swiss planes, but at one point I think I remember seeing a comic about that, and Liechtenstein was worried about defense or something. *shrug*

Random fact I discovered: Canada developed an invisibility cloak called 'quantum stealth.' My day, no, my week has been made by this knowledge. I think it's old news, but *flails around* Unless it was a hoax. Boo.

Review! :D

America felt like Frankenstein's monster, cut apart and put back together again. And he was, really, just a ragdoll with all the pieces taken out.

He'd had to lie there, helpless, as his skin was peeled back like an orange's, his organs removed and studied. His mind was overflowing with the hroror of what he'd seen.

And he realized he wasn't dead, either, but lying motionless. Am I paralyzed? Will I ever be able to move again? What have they done to me? He didn't want to move, to confirm his fears, to find himself really trapped in the cage his body was. So his mind slipped back into the nightmarish horror.

You're not supposed to see the small glow along your neurons as they conduct the pain you don't want to feel. You're not supposed to see the serpentine strands of blood vessels winding through the air above your ribcage, which waits like a field of barren white trees.

You're not supposed to see your family die in your dreams, and each time you try to save one, the others were slaughtered more brutally than he could've ever imagined. It was like seeing the future; a bloody, brilliant clarity that could never be erased from his mind.

ENOUGH. None of them are dead. England's still alive, and Canada is safe on earth.

It was all a dream...right?

America punched through his fear and tried to move his head. To his immense relief, he could lift it, thought it felt like a boulder. Looking down at the fresh, knotted scars criss-crossing his body, he tried to erase the feeling of cool air puffing across his heart as it convulsed. It was one of those sensations that you couldn't forget.

I'm broken, broken, put together again, he singsonged in his mind. He wasn't sure if he was ever going to talk again, not after seeing the pinkish flesh of his larynx vibrate after the opiates wore off and he'd screamed.

In his dream, England had used his magic to sear a hole in each and every cell, but he used up too much magic and had gone blind, and the aliens had closed in, killed him, all because he was picking Texas off the ground.

All too realistic of a dream. But he was the hero, right? He'd fix everything. Everyone was relying on him, America the hero, so he had to, had to fix this. The useless, stupid hero, trapped in a cage, who couldn't do anything, who'd get himself killed, and couldn't do anything.

He closed his eyes and felt two little fly tickles sliding down his temples and dropping off his face.

When he'd woken up, everything had appeared to be in order. Heart, stomach, kidneys all there.

But they may have added something else. To make him a freak.

That was the problem of being alone. The nation thought he felt two more tears moving off his face. There's time to brood on everything, all your faults.

The screen in the corner went on.

For a moment, he didn't realize what had happened. Then the American sat up straight, ignoring the ringing pain from his torso.

The only thing on the screen was a plane. A Swiss one, rather worn out. He recognized it as the one he'd seen in the corner earlier.

And it was on fire.

He squinted at it, repositioning Texas to get a better look. Was this supposed to affect him? If he looked closer, he could almost make out a name.

Then he realized what the implications of this were. His heart sank deeper into swampy misery. How will we get home now?

America took a moment to peer closer at the screen, tamping down his wild emotions to try and find any evidence that it was false. Animation was easy enough to do. Movies used CGI all the time, and that wasn't half as advanced as the aliens' tech. It would be easy just to screw with his head like that. Easy.

No matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, America couldn't dispel the feeling of imminent doom that hung over him. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the metal wall. Easy now. You don't want to give yourself a heart attack, or make anything inside you burst.

A moment later, he heard something click. A sound, short and sharp, lighter than the harsh cadence of the American's breathing.

He whirled around, stitches pulling at his side.

An alien stood in his cell. Its fangs were bared in a sort of grimace, needle teeth glistening. The stinger curved over its left shoulder.

With a roar, the nation lunged forwards, anger boiling up in his blood and drowning out the pain. They've done horrible things, and now the hero is going to make them pay.

This thing would die.

But as his hands reached it, the alien literally disappeared. Vanished into thin air.

America went crashing into the wall. Texas bashed into the bridge of his nose and his mind was fuzzy for a moment.

When his head was clear, there was an odd crackling sound all around him, and it seemed much darker. Did I damage my vision? the nation worried, fingers groping around on the ground for Texas. Strangely enough, the ground felt oddly warm. Maybe it was because he'd been lying on it...But no, it wasn't that, for his roaming fingers touched a hot surface and flinched back.

Absolutely not expecting that, he sat up, head ringing.

It was dark around him, and the air was uncomfortably stifling. He stood up and nearly scalded his hand when he reached to steady himself. "What the heck's going on?" A dim orange light pierced the semi-darkness, sending broken-glass shadows dancing on the walls.

Only when the light took shape and form on the other side of the darkness did the American realize he was staring at fire. Fire?

Looking around at his cramped surroundings, he had an epiphany. And I'm staring at the fire because I'm in the burning plane. The one he'd seen not thirty seconds ago.

How he got in the plane, he had no idea. But this wasn't a time for how, it was a time for getting the heck out and wondering later. His mind speculated anyway and settled with an acceptable solution. Obviously they took me here when I bashed my head. I should take better care of myself...

He made for the windshield, tripping more than once in the darkness. By the time he made it to the cockpit, it was wreathed in flame, and thick black smoke was pouring to fill the cabin. It was the perfect environment...for death.

Getting out that way was not gonna work. He groped back the way he came. It was getting darker, the smoke muffling any light the fire gave off Surely there's a door...

Sweat streamed down into his eyes as he tried to fumble the latch open, wincing each time his burnt hand came in contact with the rapidly melting lock. The temperature had shot up suddenly, and the American had to bend down in order not to suck in a lungful of smoke. The corner of the ceiling was loose, bowing in almost, and America suddenly remembered that Switzerland's planes weren't the best.

His lungs stung, and his eyes were tearing up from the smoke. There was no time to find Texas, he had to get out of there. The oxygen was being used up in the small plane, and sooner or later, he would...

...die.

Words did not describe how much he didn't want to die. There were so many people relying on him, not to mention all his friends and other nations, and...

He slammed his body into the door repeatedly. It creaked and dented under his rather considerable mass, but didn't give in. With a strength born of pure, utter panic, he wrenched at the hinges, scrabbling blindly at the folds of metal, ignoring the smell of his flesh cooking. One hinge...two... his fingertips were red and blistered and spattered with blood, his nails bending backwards under the onslaught. Three...

The ceiling was creaking ominously, buckling inwards, drops of molten metal dotting the ground. It didn't seem like it would hold much longer

Four! With a shriek of metal, the door was yanked out of its frame. The American threw it behind him, cool air rushing in around him, a balm to his lungs and stinging skin. America nearly sobbed in relief and flung himself towards the opening.

And stopped dead. Correction: And smashed to a halt as if he'd hit a force field. No, it was a force field, blocking the exit. He couldn't get out.

He leaned against it, feeling the cold slippery thing under his hands. They left red splotches hovering, seemingly on the air. To have escape so close, and then rendered impossible...

The ceiling groaned again. A shelf of liquid metal was slipping to the ground like mercury, and the entire structure seemed fatally unbalanced by the removal of the door.

If he didn't burn to death, he would suffocate. And which was better, really? A quick snap of horrible, roasting pain, and then oblivion, or a prolonged, painless agony as his lungs refused to fill?

America thought about all the people he was as a nation. What about them? He was letting them down by giving up.

I'm sorry. There's nothing left for me to do.

A thought that didn't seem to be his popped into his mind. I can't be the hero this time.

I'll never be a hero.

In a rush of air and fire and a scream of metal, the ceiling cave out.

The brave, heroic American curled into a ball and waited for the end.

There was a snap.

Is this it? Is this the end?

Then he realized his hands hurt, and he sagged with relief. You can't be dead if you still hurt.

England had said that, but the dreams told him that England was dead.

The lights came back on. He was in his cell, curled up under that immensely heavy bench, which had been flipped on its side and thrown across the room. There were scratch marks on the sides of it. Above his head, there were bloody hand prints.

The American looked at his hands. They weren't burnt, no, but they were badly bruised and bleeding from repeated impact with the wall, and his fingernails had turned pale and bent back. The crescents of them were dark with blood.

Have I just hallucinated? Have I lost my mind? Neither of the two questions were ones he wanted to answer. This is what happens when you try to be a hero, he thought. Everything goes wrong. So...I can't. I can't be a hero anymore. And who did I save in the first place? Nobody. Not even me.

I can't be the hero anymore.

He wasn't sure where these thoughts were founded. But they rang with the sound of absolute truth, and he embraced them.

America rolled over and stared up at the ceiling, wanting to sleep, but afraid of what the darkness might bring.