"You hold in your hands the future of the world." –French President Raymond Poincare (1919)
One thing she had learned over the years was to always be wary of meddlesome Europeans.
At the time, separating herself from the remainder of the world through sporadic bouts of isolationism seemed to do the trick in warding off any potential intruders, but that was when she was just a budding nation, unable to fend for herself. However, times had changed since the days of her humble beginnings, and the eyes of the world were finally turned on her.
She didn't plan on letting that kind of momentous opportunity falter.
Thus, the end of the Civil War brought about a tedious era of Reconstruction. For the first time in quite a number of decades, America felt herself regaining her strength with a fervor unlike any other. An industrial boom sent her hurtling into mounds of much-needed revenue, relishing in the burst of wealth after years upon years of gloom and warfare.
Yet, her heart still contained an ounce of bitterness toward the lands that had once turned against her, so much so that when the South entered a poverty-stricken age, she directed a blind eye at them. She had assured herself that she held no grudge against the South, seeing as they were still her people, but a section of her soul struggled to accept the war-torn rebels back into her open arms.
With only their agricultural gains keeping them afloat, the weary South watched sourly as their brethren to the North were blessed with the riches accumulated from their factories and trade. Though the war had ended, some wounds would take time to heal, especially the wound containing America's bleeding civil rights.
But America had her eyes set on other goals at the moment. With the turn of the century came extreme unrest in Europe, and the smell of smoke was clearly detectable in the air. Quietly observing the swelling disorder in the Balkans, she wasn't surprised in the least as Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria was assassinated, triggering the spark needed to light the flames for war. World War I, they'd later call it—a bloody massacre of attrition that would someday change entire concept of battle.
"You Europeans are a strange folk," she had told England upon their next meeting, directing a crooked twist of a smile in his direction. "Now, I would be happy to aid you in your cause, if you could find the will to ask politely," she murmured teasingly, already seeing the grand opportunity that this war could hold for her in the long run.
"I thought you prided yourself in being an isolationist? Your own president, Woodrow Wilson, has been preaching neutrality for over two years now." England remarked, taking a slow sip of his wine.
America merely laughed, eyes wild with excitement. Frankly, England seemed to be more than a little bewildered by her strange enthusiasm, fearing something that he couldn't quite place his finger on.
"I suppose we could make an exception. A little propaganda to raise public support shouldn't be too difficult, hmm?"
"My, my," England said with a low whistle. "You have changed the tune of your song, haven't you? I don't know what it is you're playing at, but I assure you that if you plan on using me to—"
Shaking her head firmly, America circled her way around the table that they were seated at. She laid her hands on England's shoulders, towering over his chair from behind his figure. Dipping her head closer to his ear, England could hear the smile in her voice. "Don't worry, father. I'm capable of tending to my own matters without your involvement. Far too capable, in fact. "
The words had startled the man, but by the time he had returned home to deal with the ensuing chaos, he had completely forgotten about America's cryptic messages, deciding instead to focus on his own troubles. Besides, the Allies needed all the help they could get.
Meanwhile, America was busying herself with rallying support from all sections of the nation, pleased to see that most of the help had been done for her in the form of President Wilson, whose speeches profoundly invoked passion and determination.
His address to Congress had been the icing on the cake.
"The world must be made safe for democracy. Its peace must be planted upon the tested foundations of political liberty. We have no selfish ends to serve. We desire no conquest, no dominion. We seek no indemnities for ourselves, no material compensation for the sacrifices we shall freely make. We are but one of the champions of the rights of mankind."
And so, America finally made her way upon European lands after avoiding their presence for as long as she cared to recall. She walked past the many trenches, the wafting remains of mustard gas in the atmosphere, and the innumerable casualties.
One never understood what war truly entailed until it was too late, no matter how righteous the initial intents had been.
The war to end all wars.
Somehow, she couldn't convince herself of such a thing.
Despite this, the world had finally witnessed her military might for the first time on such a grand scale. She had finally secured herself as a world power, and the respect and reverence that she gained from it made her hungry for more.
That is, until she discovered that England had been injured.
Exposure to mustard gas, it seemed, and America berated the other for it. There was no reason for him to be fighting alongside his men like a commoner, but he did it anyway, placing himself among his people to reconcile with his guilt for not being able to do more to protect them.
And, though it was remarkably idiotic of him, America admired his valor.
She gathered the finest rations she could find and made way for his camp the following day, holding her hands above her head to signify to his soldiers that she came in peace. Her hair had been cut yet again for the purpose of disguising her gender, seeing as a woman would be frowned upon for being on the battlefield.
"It's all right. Lower your weapons!" America had said sternly at the soldiers, displaying her unmistakably American military uniform.
Abidingly, the men had stepped aside, and she made her way for England's tent, letting out a little sigh as she tiptoed her way inside.
"Johnnie get your gun, get your gun, get your gun," she sang softly as she entered, recalling one of her most popular wartime tunes. It had been created out of the pure essence of propaganda, but she found a certain amusement behind it anyway. "Take it on the run, on the run, on the run. Hear them calling you and me—every son of liberty."
England had been roused out of his sleep, groaning quietly as he shuffled on his cot. He strained to speak, chest burning from having inhaled a large billow of mustard gas just under twenty-four hours ago. Nonetheless, he managed to gurgle an anguished, "America."
Setting down the food at the foot of the bed, America opened her canteen of water and offered it to the elder nation, never halting the haunting melody. "Hurry right away, no delay, go today. Make your daddy glad to have had such a lad."
Grimacing sullenly, England propped himself up on his elbows, releasing a string of breathy coughs. "Good Lord…"
Clad with a goofy grin, America continued gleefully. "Tell your sweetheart not to pine—to be proud her boy's in line."
Rubbing his eyes tiredly, England tried to drown out the lyrics to no avail. "America, I—"
"Over there, over there! Send the word, send the word over there! That the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming! The drums rum-tumming everywhere!" America went on, patting England's head as though he were a restless child.
Irritated albeit bemused, England finally cracked a smile through a labored breath, blinking up at America exasperatedly.
"So prepare, say a prayer. Send the word, send the word to beware! We'll be over, we're coming over, and we won't come back till it's over, over there!"
"George Cohan?"
Taken aback, America gaped down at the man with wide eyes. "How did you know he sings that song?"
Huffing, England swallowed heavily with a wince. "Unfortunately, your music has made its way to my shores by some merciless feat."
"Well, it's good to know that the Brits have been exposed to some long overdue American culture," America retorted, quite smug as she motioned for England to take another swig of water from her canteen. "So, how are you feeling?"
"Bloody fantastic. Thank you for asking," England returned darkly, rotating his shoulder to rid himself of the muscle pain there. "I reckon I could spare a lung if necessary."
Frowning slightly, America tried to keep up her cheer. "Well, it's a good thing I made it here to offer you a hand, huh? Did you miss me?"
"I would've preferred to see Canada while on my death bed, truth be told."
Thoroughly deflated now, America took a seat on the edge of the bed, eyes twinkling with a glimmer of relief at the man's sarcasm. He'd be as right as rain in no time with cheeky remarks like that. "I'll round him up later. Until then, you'll have to settle for me."
"What a shame," England antagonized, clearing his throat roughly. "Though I suppose your company is better than none at all."
Laughing lightly, America ran a hand through her short locks. "Hmm, that was nearly a compliment! Should I alert the medic?"
"Perhaps, though I'm afraid this is an injury that might be beyond repair."
Smirking, America watched quietly as England began to pick through the rations she'd procured, chest heaving with every movement. "On a more serious note, how are things going?"
"I've been through worse," England assured dully, pulling a biscuit out of its packaging. "And I daresay you have as well."
Nodding in agreement, America toyed with the buttons on her uniform. "Why do you do it?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Putting yourself out on the front-line like that," she clarified, directing her gaze into her lap. "Doesn't it frighten you?"
The man considered the question for a long moment, eyes alight with a commiserative gleam. "To better understand my people, I suppose… Other nations do it as well."
"I've tried doing it myself, but I could never bring myself to stay among my men for very long. Call me flighty if you'd like…"
"You wouldn't understand. Part of it is merely a selfish matter of pride. You're a woman, and it's unseemly for you to be on the battlefield anyway."
Flaring up at that comment, America straightened her back defensively. "I can fight as well as any man!"
"I don't doubt that," England muttered with a little chuckle, meeting America's eyes with an inquisitive glance. "But I doubt you'll find the need to prove yourself."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
In all of the years she'd known England, he'd never looked at her in such a curious way, eyes boring into her thoughts. He seemed to know something that she hadn't quite deciphered yet, and his mild and slightly incredulous demeanor made her want to follow his reasoning.
"What is it?" she pressed, fingers curled around the edge of the mattress. "Why are you looking at me that way?"
Realizing he was being impolite, England tore his gawking gaze away, busying himself with another biscuit. "It's nothing… I was merely lost in thought. Now, let's discuss our next movements."
And once again, the plight of the moment was lost on her, but she would live to see that look in England's eyes again someday, though it would take her decades to fully grasp its significance.
Because when he looked at her, he no longer saw a miniscule child wandering around in a wheat field. No, he saw something much greater—something he had suspected many years ago. It was ironic in a way, and it filled his heart with both indignation and delight.
Right before his very eyes stood the woman who would someday be the living and breathing symbol of the free world. Oh, what a fool he had been for not recognizing it sooner. It was people like America—with those wild eyes and a burning heart—that could irreversibly change the world.
This formerly intriguing little girl had transformed into an adamant woman clad with ingenuity and astuteness, such that he almost found himself shrinking away from her terrifying deftness.
A humorous twist of fate…
To the victor go the spoils, and thus, America bathed in unprecedented wealth. With the war meeting its end, her economy had been rewarded for her contributions. The Treaty of Versailles had settled her fate as well as the destiny of Europe. Though she could still sense future controversy wriggling under the surface of their momentary peace, she decided to do what she did best—retreat into her glorious isolationism.
Except, she was met with an unanticipated issue…
The world had turned to her now, and it would be nearly impossible for her to hide away from the other nations now, especially with her booming industries and growing military. Nevertheless, she would come to pay the consequences for her actions, but until then—she danced with the riches of her land.
The Roaring 1920s promised nothing but lavish lifestyles for those who held the income of the nation. A massive crevice had formed between the rich and the poor, leaving no room for a wilting middle-class.
She herself was a witness to it. In the mornings she would find herself indulging in the finest prohibited liquor, liberated as every aspect of her culture became more scandalous and promiscuous in every sense of the word. For the first time in a long era of subdued frustrations, women were permitted to pride themselves in being rebellious, chopping their far-reaching locks and shortening their dresses. They smoked and drank and partied, and though some criticized the 'flappers', many welcomed the change.
Finally, she felt more welcome in her own country. She no longer had to live with the fears that she had once hoarded for the greater good.
By night, she walked the long stretches of slums littering her urban cities, failing to reconcile with the disconnection between the wealthy and those living under the gray smog of abject poverty. From a distance, New York bustled with life and prosperity, and even she believed that the streets were paved with gold. However, upon closer inspection, she knew that such greediness would eventually be punished.
And it was.
It seemed to have happened so suddenly, though she had predicted it with a rumbling feeling of dread in the past. In one moment, the world was her oyster. In the next, she was weak and frail, burning with a strange and never-ending fever caused by what became known as 'The Great Depression'. The humming engine behind her cities suddenly shut itself off, and her land became shrouded in desperate calls for relief. The hungry stalked the avenues, and America was presented with yet another hurdle as her banks collapsed, inviting vital reforms. Europe was brought down along with her, and they all plodded along together, something which she had never experienced before. The world economy had become interconnected, crumbling like a line of dominoes at an inconceivably rapid rate.
"America? Open your eyes."
The voice tore her out of her fevered dreams, and as an indescribable weariness settled in her bones as she blinked back at her savior. "Canada?"
"I figured you'd need someone to tend to you," her twin informed her gently, attempting to spoon-feed her some kind of gooey mash. "No one expected something like this to happen, especially not now."
Grumbling indistinguishably, America reached for Canada's arm, tugging him closer. "Don't think this makes me indebted to you."
"Of course not," the other reassured with a dimply smile, prodding her mouth open with the silver spoon. "It'll be all right. You've been through recessions before."
"Not to this extent."
Furrowing, Canada continued encouragingly. "Nonetheless, you'll pull through. You might be happy to know that England's on his way here as we speak. In fact, he should be here any moment."
Scoffing derisively, America turned her head away from the pestering spoon. "What does he want? Didn't anyone tell him that I'm clearly not in the mood for visitors?"
"Oh, yes. The entirety of Europe is talking about you," Canada informed casually, one brow raised above the other. "But I don't think he intends to give you any grief. He seemed quite worried about you during our last meeting."
"Worried? He must have taken ill as well, in that case," America griped instinctually, pulling the coverlet of the bed closer to her neck. "How was the last meeting, by the way? I haven't spent much time convening with everyone else since the end of the war."
Nodding, Canada set the bowl of goo on the nightstand. "Your absence has been troubling as well, even before your economic bust. Europe is in as much unrest as ever. It seems that the Germans aren't fond of the restrictions placed on them by the Treaty of Versailles. Yet, I hear that their economy is in shambles as well."
"Oh, Germany," America muttered softly, as though recalling a nostalgic memory. "It won't be long before he's up and about again."
"Mmm, and when that happens, let's hope that you're up and about as well," Canada added, cocking his head to the side as there was a knock upon the door. "Your next visitor is here, I think."
Groaning, America listened peevishly as Canada went to unlock the front door of the house, greeting the intruder politely before escorting him upstairs and back into the bedroom.
"Perhaps you'll get her to eat," Canada lamented, pushing open the door and inviting England inside. "God knows she won't listen to me."
Glowering at her sickly form, England approached the chair by the bedside, settling himself into it without a second of hesitation. "Oh, how the tables have turned," he mocked, examining the food that Canada had been trying to gorge her with previously. After a moment, he took the bowl into his hands and twirled the spoon through its contents, mixing the concoction thoroughly.
"Canada tells me you still haven't set him free," America noted with a cheeky grin, wiping the sweat off of her forehead. "I thought you would've annexed him to me by now. Surely you don't have much of a reason to keep him around anymore?"
Wearing a frown in the doorway, Canada sighed. "I see that my ministrations have been appreciated. If you don't mind me, I'm going to run a few errands downstairs."
When her brother was out of earshot, she let out an airy laugh. "It's more satisfying to tease him now that he's older," she claimed, letting out a little hiss as England placed a cold hand on her forehead.
"I keep him under my watch to protect him from your tyranny," England accused amusingly, prying another spoonful of mash into America's mouth as she grimaced discontentedly.
Swallowing painfully, America spluttered exaggeratedly, swatting England's hands away from her vicinity. "That was horrid."
"Don't fuss—it's nutritional. With your diet, I doubt this will do you any harm."
"I don't wish to find out."
Smirking devilishly, England managed to get another heaping amount of the substance down her throat again. "I imagine it's delectable. Now, I trust you understand the delicate situation taking place in Europe as we speak? I don't want to overwhelm you while you're unwell, but—"
"You won't be getting any loans for a long while, old friend," America interjected, folding her arms across her chest. "And if war should break out again, I will not be getting involved."
"And why on earth not? You're now a leading world democracy. You can't cower away from your responsibility to defend your ideals at home and abroad."
Scoffing, America brushed a few sweat-soaked strands of hair away from her face. "I doubt that after this crisis, my people will want to get themselves engulfed in another European war. We've had enough for now."
"Foolish girl," England spat, forcing even more mash into America for her comments. "You rallied public support during the first World War. Why shouldn't you be able to manage the same now? I can assure you that this war will be far more destructive than the first, and the democracies of the world don't stand a fighting chance without your contributions."
"Pardon me if I'm wrong, but are you trying to insinuate that I'm a powerful force to be reckoned with?"
"What? I never—"
"Go on, out with it!"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Say it! You know you want to."
"Stop this ridiculousness."
Sitting up in bed, America let a smile stretch from ear to ear on her face. "I know what this is about. 'Oh, America, your power is unmatched. Please join our cause!'"
Growling now, England stood up from his seat. "Forget it! You're incorrigible!"
"Why, England, you should've said something sooner. You see, I'm a very busy woman, and I don't have the time to join in on your little war games. Perhaps, we can discuss such festivities at a later date?" America teased with bolstered spirits. "Admit it, you need me!"
"I shouldn't have to listen to this. Rot in this bed for all I care!"
Letting out a harsh cough, America feigned a pained gasp. "Agh—!"
Turning back toward the bed and hovering over her form, England frowned morosely. "Bloody—what is it now? Are you all right?"
Catching the clear concern in her former fatherland's eyes, she grinned. "You do care about me. Don't try to pretend otherwise. And the truth is, I worry about you as well, so let's not beat around the bush. I'll promise you this much, England, I'll do what I can."
"That's what I wanted to hear," England replied with a distraught sigh, ambling back to his chair. "Now, let's finish this lovely dinner of yours, yes?"
"On second thought, I lied. I won't be of any help to you or any of the Allies should war come upon us."
"Come now," England coaxed condescendingly, leaning forward in his seat. "I thought you were a woman of your word, America."
"Yes, though I'm kind of wishing I wasn't."
"We shall defend our island whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on beaches, landing grounds, in fields, in streets and on the hills. We shall never surrender." - Winston Churchill.
At times, she hoped they would surrender, if only so that she did not have to witness England's suffering any longer. The man's nation had been completely ravaged, and on the nights when she felt a little more vulnerable than during the others, she found herself sobbing wretchedly from within the walls of her bedroom, wondering if the world would ever recover from such a horrifying and gruesome conflict.
And she wanted to do more—she truly did, but her government was unrelenting. Therefore, she did as much as she possibly could while still claiming to be neutral.
"Amerique, this has gone too far. You must do something," France had said, expressing his grievances to her. The man had already surrendered his nation, and never had she seen him so jittery and helpless, nearly falling to his knees with desperate pleas.
It made her emotional all over again. She thought she'd felt conflicted and torn during the Civil War, but nothing compared to this. The Allies were losing, and the only nations that were still keeping them afloat were Russia and Britain.
Each day she waited for the 'okay' from her government, counting down each minute with a frantic impatience.
"I'll be sending over more munitions soon through the Lend-Lease Act," she promised England in her letters, doing her best to reassure him that justice would prevail. She sent him as many resources as possible, except that half of her cargo never made it to his shores in once piece.
And perhaps her anger toward the Axis Powers wouldn't have been as immense if the Germans didn't insist on attacking her ships. She had already cautioned Germany multiple times to watch his step, but he hadn't heeded her warnings.
When things couldn't seem to get any worse, a new belligerent yanked at her thinning patience.
Japan.
The attack on Pearl Harbor hadn't been entirely unexpected, but she hadn't expected the attack to take place there. Instead, she had been anticipating an attack on Washington.
It had been the final straw, and if the Germans, Italians, and Japanese wanted to play with fire, then they would have to risk getting scorched.
The beast had been roused, and America held no mercy for her foes, launching herself into a campaign of island-hopping in the Pacific with Japan while working with England in Europe to free France from Germany. Her fresh and young soldiers had driven a new motivating force through the heart of the Allies, and she had supplied her partners with much needed resources.
Thankfully, the Axis was running out of steam quickly, especially with the breakneck pace that America was moving at, replenishing their collection of weapons and ushering in new technological advancements onto the battlegrounds.
But the effects of the blitzkrieg were still as bright as day.
She walked into the infirmary crying, tears shielded by quivering hands as she passed the long row of beds in the makeshift hospital. It smelled of drying blood and rubbing alcohol, but she was far too busy with thinking about the destruction she could have prevented as she neared the bed she was looking for.
Pained eyes clouded with anguish stared back at her, and she tried to think of something witty to say, yearning for the ability to cast away all of the misfortunes around her.
"The Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming… The drums rum-tumming everywhere…" she sang through her occasional sobs, kneeling over the disheveled bed. Her upper body practically collapsed onto the man's lap as she mumbled fervent apologies. "I'm so sorry… God, I'm sorry."
England blinked mutely at her, covered in blood-soaked bandages. Then, he carefully reached out a hand and took hold of America's trembling one.
And he did what he had done many years ago in moments like these—he brought the chilled appendage up to his lips and placed a chaste kiss on it. "Better late than never."
Stuck between laughing at the morbidity of it all and crying, America settled on something in-between, squeezing England's hand firmly. "How do you do it? How did you hold on for so long?"
"We Brits are a stubborn bunch," England replied with a melancholy smile. "I'm tired of war…"
"You could say that again."
"But I'm so damned happy you're here."
"Me too," America agreed immediately. She looked at England in the way she had looked at him as a child, revering him as some sort of hero. Shortly after, she found the solace that she'd once received on a daily basis from the other, pitying his weary eyes and aging form. "Me too."
"America?"
"Yes, England?"
"Do tell me when we've won."
Smiling through another round of unashamed tears, America mustered a little chuckle and a promising nod.
"Of course."