"S-sorry," I say, laughing. "What?"

"You know." Russia stares at me blankly.

"No, I don't," I reply, frustrated. "Germany's on the map- next to France and Austria"-

"Prussia, that's you," Russia insists.

"Get me a map."

Russia does; he walks out of the room and returns a moment later unfolding a piece of paper, spreading it down on the table over the newspaper.

I glance to Europe. The normal countries are there- France, Italy, England- but there is no Germany. There's Prussia, and to the north of that, Denmark. But no Germany.

I sink to my knees, forehead touching the cool tile floor.

Somewhere, far away, I hear Russia saying, "Prussia, it will be okay. I am not quite sure what is wrong, but we can get through it, da?"

"Never," I scream. Because now I'm pretty sure I died and came back to life in some sort of twisted alternate universe, and my brother is dead, and Russia is my friend.

No, Russia. No, nein, nyet, non, whatever you want to say. This is never going to work.

"...Prussia."

I'm standing near the kitchen doorway, and I hear voices. Russia and...?

"Prussia's here." Russia.

"Well, that's no surprise." Hold on.

"I know. But he's acting very strange."

"He's always acting strange, Russia. What's new?" The second voice is definitely a guy's. It sounds familiar, but tormented somehow. It's not France, for sure.

"He's talking about World War Two, calling me a Communist."

"That is kind of strange... I mean, Prussia doesn't do stuff like that so much. Is he upset?"

"I don't know. But the weird thing, da..."

"What?"

"When he woke up, he was positive Germany was alive."

"That's because Bruder is alive!" I burst through the doorway. Russia looks up in surprise, and I see America sitting there, sipping a Coke, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

"Hmm? Dude, get a grip," America snarls unhappily. "Can't handle me being around your man, huh? Well, get used to it. I'm gonna be around here a lot."

My man? "I thought we were friends, so that's okay, mein Gott," I mutter, rolling my eyes. "There's no need to flip out."

America jumps up and slams me against the wall, his arm over my throat.

"Hey!" Russia exclaims.

America looks different. The carefree, ignorant light usually shining in his blue eyes is gone, replaced by hate and pain.

"America?" I ask, my eyes narrow.

In response, he punches me in the face.

"Watch it!" I growl, putting a hand to my jaw, kneeing America in the stomach. He coughs and steps back, glaring at me.

"Hey!" Russia shoves himself between America and me.

"That fat pig started it," I snarl.

"Fat pig? Oh but Prussia that's you," America replies.

"What? No, it's not. I'm not the one shoving burgers down my throat 24/7."

America looks dumbstruck. "Who's doing what?"

"Prussia. America. Stop. America, I think you can go now."

"I just got here. You think I blew off a bunch of money just to see Prussia's ugly face? Nope, I did not."

"America. Just... go drive around. Now, please." Russia's voice is pleading. America slams the door shut, leaving, and I hear a car engine rumble to life. My jaw hurts.

"What was that? You knew America was coming," Russia says.

"I did not! First off, what's up with him? Man PMS? Ameria and I are s'posed to be friends."

Russia looks sick. "Since when? You hate each other."

"Oh, yeah?"

"He wouldn't forgive you," Russia says. "Not after you completely destroyed his country."