The phone rang.

America considered letting it go to voice-mail, but he couldn't afford to wait for news these days; if the phone rang, he had to pick it up.

He hoped it was good news.

"Hello?"

"Sir, a fleet has been sighted outside the harbor. Orders?"

America felt vaguely ill. "What colors are they flying?" That was the correct term, wasn't it? He had never paid much attention when England tried to teach him stuff about sailing.

England…

No, he couldn't dwell on the past.

"Mostly Danish and Norwegian, but a few others as well, sir!"

Dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit.

This was very bad.

"Sir? Orders?"

America shook his head. "Get in contact with the flagship and see what they want." He already had a pretty good idea of what Denmark wanted, but asking would give him time to think.

He hung up and put his head down on his desk. What had gone so wrong? This whole thing was supposed to be quick; a simple seizure of Norwegian oil fields to offset the money being sent to Prussia and Germany. Money that he should not have had to pay.

How long ago had this venture started?

He couldn't remember.

The phone rang again. With a sigh, he answered it.

"Privyet, Amerika. We had news recently that Denmark's armada was going to attack your capital."

Man, America wished (secretly, of course) that he could get ahold of some Russian spies. They were even better than the NSA at finding stuff out.

"Yeah, they're outside the harbor. We've just commenced negotiations."

"You need to get out of the city, Amerika. It is not safe. Come to Moscow; there is always a place for you here."

Russia sounded equal parts concerned and wistful. Weird.

"I can't do that, Broski. I need to be here. But, um, thanks for the, uh, offer?" Why was he so nervous? It certainly wasn't because he was afraid of Russia, because he was most certainly not.

"Amerika, please, just leave the city. It is not safe for you anymore."

"I'll do what I can. But look, I really gotta go. Talk to you later!"

"Amerika, don't-!"

America hung up.

The phone rang again immediately.

He answered.

"Sir, the Danish fleet is demanding our immediate, unconditional, and total surrender. Orders?"

America covered to receiver with one hand and cursed like a sailor. To the aide calling him, he said, "Don't bomb them. Whatever you do, don't bomb them. Just wait for-"

The phone died.

He hoped that his message had gotten through. The phones had been rather static-y lately, and the big-wigs in Washington were more than a little trigger-happy.

He looked out his window. It had a rather nice view of the harbor.

He saw immediately that his message had been a victim if the static-y phone lines: a missile arced over most of the ships, hitting the one in the very back. The missile exploded on contact, and all that was left of the ship was a fiery ruin.

America took the opportunity to curse in every language that he could think of before running out of his study.

A/N: Yes, I made a NSA joke. It's what I do.

And America is totally denser than a rock, I swear.