"All animals are created equal, but some animals are more equal than others." –George Orwell, Animal Farm.
It was a battle that never snuffed itself out—the struggle between the ideologies of the East versus the West. It pitted brother against brother, and sparked incendiary conflicts that could only result in tragedy and bloodshed.
But it was still essential, and America knew this. She knew that the East was a precious counterweight—a check and balance on the power of her own nation—and for that reason, she respected the East. Despite their differences, and despite all of the senseless terror and anger it fueled, it could not be any other way.
Neither could win because neither victor deserved the title of ruler of the world. The role of devil's advocate had to be played by someone, and while she understood how imperative this adversarial system of thought was, that did not mean she had to agree with it. In fact, she would try and try again to have her way because she firmly believed in the power of the free world, and an instinctive need for asserting herself drove her to extinguish any contender.
So when communism tested the resolve of democracy, she stood her ground.
She refused to be the first to blink.
And it was messy, as with all things involving politics. Innocent civilians were tangled up in a war of beliefs—a combat that was entirely out of their hands while their respective governments chose what they claimed was the best side for their nation to ally itself with.
Nowhere was this philosophical campaign more visible than in Berlin; it was the city shrouded by a literal iron curtain, sliced into two as both sides tried to prove that their ideas were superior.
America stood in the heart of this war-torn society in 1961, watching as the final rolls of barbed wire ran across the length of the Wall, separating brethren. A difficult sight to fathom, it established a tangible divide between the Western world and the East—a place where everyone cringed in fear and anxiety of what might happen next.
And the people of the East waited for a response—expected America to tear down the Wall with her tanks and expansive military, but she did not. Europe had scarcely recovered from World War II, and it was not the time to risk a third war.
She could do nothing but watch, and, once again, she was rendered helpless.
"Thank you for agreeing to come with me on this trip," she told England as they stood just a few yards away from the Wall. "I needed to see it for myself. I needed to be with the people of West Berlin."
England gazed upon the foreboding structure and its cement bricks with a look of utter solemnity. "I understand, and you musn't thank me—it was high-time that I paid a visit as well…"
For a long moment, they did not speak. After all, what was there to say? They had failed. They had given Russia free reign to dominate Eastern Europe after the Yalta Conference, and it was a mistake on their part.
Now, they could only preserve what had not been lost.
With the hustle and bustle of daily life in West Berlin, it seemed incredulous that its people could function with such tenacity and proficiency while the East loomed over them like a shadow. The sheer courage of Berliners spoke in a voice that was far greater than the symbolism of the Wall. Every eye in West Berlin was filled with a glimmer of hope, and it filled America with inexplicable admiration.
"The beauty of this city cannot be contained; it will spill over, and this damn wall won't stand for long," she said with a conviction that stirred deep in her gut. She dared to approach the Wall and rested a hand on its sturdy surface, wishing she could reach across to the other side and embrace all those who were trapped in what had become a completely different civilization.
She could feel the immense pain of the city on her shoulders, and it made her knees weak and her stomach uneasy. She glanced up at the buildings just on the opposite side of the barrier, and by some sick twist of fate, she saw what she had most dreaded.
Standing upon the rooftop of one of the many buildings hugging the East side of the Wall was a young boy of no more than ten years of age. With the sun behind his back and the cloudless sky above him, he spread his arms like wings, caught in the radiant warmth and sunshine of the day. He leaned forward ever so slightly, rocking on his heels and toes as he stared longingly at the Western half of the city. It was so close now, and the Wall seemed so small and insignificant from above.
America's mouth grew dry at once, and all of the blood in her body seemed to vanish as a wave of lightheadedness overcame her.
"A-Arthur… Look up."
Concern already evident in the elder nation's eyes, he balked at the sky, heart trilling in his chest like a hummingbird as the child continued to sway on the remnants of some scaffolding left on the rooftop.
"Dear God…"
The next few seconds would later appear to be a blur in her mind, but in that fragment of a moment, America sprinted down the length of the Wall, arms outstretched as the boy finally released his footing on the roof, cutting through air like a pair of scissors and gliding over the prickly barbed wire just a few inches below his figure.
She would not watch this child die.
A bundle of weight settled against her arms as she caught his legs, immeasurably relieved to see that England had secured his upper half. Together, they had formed a makeshift net of arms, successfully cushioning the boy's fall as the sound of gunfire broke out on the other side of the Wall.
America lowered the boy's legs and led them to solid ground once more as England supported him by the waist, and, after recovering from the initial shock, the child seemed to be otherwise unharmed.
"There's a good lad," England murmured, being the first to regain his bearings. He placed a shaking hand on the child's head and ruffled his hair as the little one cried with loud, hitching sobs. "It's all right now."
A number of individuals spectated the scene, but neither nation paid them any mind as they tried to console the horrified child. The boy wailed and wailed with rosy cheeks and puffy eyes as America wrapped her arms around him protectively in an attempt to hush him.
"Es ist okay," she muttered in the minimal amount of broken German that she knew. "You did it—you crazy boy. You escaped."
The boy continued to quiver despite their ministrations, staring at the Wall with burning eyes and a stricken gaze. The severity of what he had done seemed to dawn upon him, and he would've doubled over in shock had America not been holding him.
Struggling to breathe at a steady rate, he mumbled a few rushed sentences in German and lumbered over to the Wall, choking on his own mucus as he cried. "Meine Familie…"
It was clear then, that he had not expected to survive the jump.
It made America's stomach reel in a disgusted cartwheel of acid once more. "Arthur, what do we do now?"
"We'll bring him to a hospital or shelter," the elder decided, taking note of the approaching police officers. "Or risk handing him over to the authorities."
"No."
"Excuse me, is there a problem here? Does this boy belong to you?"
America glowered at the two officers and then at England before shielding the child from view. She was surprised that the two men spoke English, and hoped they would be sympathetic enough to not force the boy back into the East.
"Thank you, but the situation is under control," she told them with an embarrassed huff. She'd never been a fan of authority figures, and always felt condescended whenever interacting with anyone in a position of power.
A brief standoff occurred, during which point one of the officers proclaimed, "We witnessed the boy jumping."
Her muscles tensed, and she pulled the boy over to her hip. "Then you must be relieved to see him unharmed."
"We will not send him back. We only want to help."
They seemed sincere, but one could never be certain of another's allegiance.
England, however, seemed to be persuaded quite easily. He directed a stern look at her, and there was no use in arguing with him when he was in such a mood. "Amelia, they will know where to take him."
She managed the tiniest of nods, reluctantly urging the boy forward and over to the police officers. After a few fleeting seconds, she ventured voicing a request at the two men. "I have to tell him something. Can you translate? Please ask him his name first."
The taller officer of the two smiled in assurance, and it made America's heart a little less heavy in her chest.
"Wie heißen Sie?" he asked the breathless child, securing a warm hand on his shoulder.
"Matthias."
America eyes glittered like jewels as she regarded the boy, oozing with affection. "That's close to my brother's name… You're such a brave and brilliant boy, Matthias… A real hero."
"Sie sagt, Sie mutig und ein Held," the officer explained, pleased to see that the statement had caused the child to cease his crying.
The boy blinked up at America with water-logged eyes, painfully convulsing with intense anxiety. He appeared to want to say something more substantial to express his gratitude but could only manage a weak and croaky "danke" as he sniffled. When he had calmed himself somewhat, he caught America in a hug and then clung to England as well, eyes streaming with waterfalls once more. "Danke. Danke. Danke. Du hast mich gerettet."
The officer drew in a deep breath and readied a half-smile on his lips. "He said that you saved him."
England and America exchanged melancholy expressions, and turned toward the boy, still hardly able to believe their eyes.
"It was what any reasonable person would have done," England muttered, stepping forward and mussing up the boy's hair once more. They met each other's gaze and shared a moment of understanding and fondness despite the language barrier. It was an inherent comprehension—a force that America had not witnessed for quite some time. She wondered if it was a skill that only nations bore, but one look at the officers confirmed her suspicions that it was an ability at the root of human nature.
Words could be spared, but some needed to be spoken anyway.
"Thank you," she whispered to the boy, observing as the German officer gave new meaning to her ramblings. She swept away the hair obscuring the little face, capturing the memory of the boy's appearance so that she could carry it with her.
"Thank you for showing me how bold it is to want to live."
"It is insane that two men, sitting on opposite sides of the world, should be able to decide to bring an end to civilization." –John F. Kennedy
Ruthless politics had brought them where they now stood. The fight had finally crept close to her shores, and there was nothing left to do but to hope that neither nation flinched or dared to make a choice that would cripple the globe. The Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962 did not contain deceit; it was barefaced and unyielding, paying no mind to who fell victim to its looming shadow.
Either all would die, or a compromise would be established.
She feared leaving such power in the hands of beings as fallible as themselves.
She had allowed herself to be sucked into this twisted mind game, and there was no reversible way out of it now. The decisions they would make would shape the balance between two halves of the world forever.
It was, quite literally, MAD. Mutually Assured Destruction. If one faltered, the other would soon follow in suit. Life flickered before their eyes, and she was aware that her very existence was threatened as well. No one would survive—not even her.
Belief could spur even the most neutral of souls.
And it was ridiculous for that very reason. Why expunge the human race for a conflict of ideas? That's all war ever was—ludicrous disagreements. Yet, she always found herself drawn back to it as decades rolled on.
"I won't do this anymore. It's infuriating," she hissed as she crossed paths with Russia, steeling her fierce eyes at the large man. "Why not just agree to disagree?"
Russia chuckled at the proposal, shoulders drawn back in an impressive and towering stance. "That is funny, Amerika. Funny that you are the one suggesting such a thing. You cannot rule the world—try as you might. Not everyone will see eye to eye with you, and the world should have other choices than to be chained to your ideas."
"I seek a resolution, that's all."
"But that's not all. You cannot lie to me," Russia murmured with a sneer, leaning forward and hanging his head to be at eye-level with her. "I know what you really want. And you can't dominate any land you like, or you will always meet resistance."
"Democracy is just. My cause is well-intentioned."
"That's what you think. Democracy may not be for everyone, silly girl. We cannot all be democracies. Where would you get all of your cheap labor if not for the communist nations? Democracy comes at a price to the rest of the world. We slave away for you. You exist because of us—we feed your production," Russia reasoned, trapping America against the wall with one arm. "If you'd like to be starved, just say the word."
America clenched her teeth and tried to wriggle away, groaning when Russia pinned her with a greater persistence. "I refuse to continue fighting you over this."
"You won't be left with a choice."
"Release me or you'll regret ever laying a hand on me!"
"Can't stand to face someone more capable of standing their ground against you?" Russia antagonized with beleaguering determination. "No, perhaps you'll only battle with more helpless nations like Korea and Vietnam. But, you see, you've already lost, Amerika. Korea has been sliced in two, and Vietnam… Well, that's shaping to be a humiliating loss as we speak."
America felt her rage sparking, and she yanked Russia's arms away from her with surprising force. "It's not a loss! We're protecting Vietnam."
"By killing its people? Oh, Amerika, you are such a funny woman—it is endearing how naïve you are."
"You're the one in the wrong—brainwashing your people with propaganda."
Russia hummed in amusement and bounded after America as she tried to distance herself. "Ah, because there is no propaganda in your country? Maybe that's why you will soon have to draft your soldiers. Your own people don't want to voluntarily fight for your cause. I don't see volunteers flocking to sign themselves up for your military."
"I'm not going to discuss this with you. Take your missiles out of Cuba and we'll call it even."
"But things are just beginning to get interesting. I thought you enjoyed such matches of strategy."
"You're sick!"
Russia caught her by the arm once more and spun her around to face him, grinning deviously. "Tell me something, why do you Westerners run away like cowards as soon as you're cornered?"
"Because I have a war to win," America replied sharply, tearing herself away and advancing down the corridor. "You're playing catch with the wrong opponent."
"Have you already forgotten about your missiles in Turkey and Italy? It takes two to instigate a war."
America stilled, hands tucked across her chest as she warily swiveled around on her heel to confront the other nation.
"But I doubt your public knows… Who's guilty of propaganda now? A slip of the tongue could remedy the malignant secret, nyet?"
"Someone had to keep your lunacy contained," she finally managed to grumble, feeling a migraine fester at the front of her head. "I'll remove my missiles if you remove yours."
Russia considered the offer and scowled. "You must also promise never to invade Cuba—publicly."
"Unless I'm provoked," she bargained, narrowing her gaze. "Deal?"
"Khrushchev will be calling your Mr. Kennedy. I'm glad we understand each other."
"Don't test the waters," she cautioned, begrudgingly extending a hand to Russia. "This is far from over, I imagine."
"Amerika is clever, after all."
The blockade extracted itself quickly from the waters surrounding Cuba, leaving nary a trace in its retreat. Had America not known better, it could've been considered a truce—a revival of peace.
But she did know better than to negotiate peace with Russia. Their ceasefires never lasted long, and the shadow of the Warsaw Pact would continue to mock her from afar. At least they were at a safer distance from one another now, and there was finally space for her to dare to breathe. Tensions had eased momentarily, and she could only hope they would last long enough for her to recover her patience.
"Should I be worried about missiles on my doorstep?"
"Ha-ha, very funny, Canada," she had groused when her brother appeared at the porch of her home, inviting himself inside for a visit.
He smirked at her in a fashion that assured her that there was no real malice in his words. "I mean, to be honest, I'm sure Russia could easily miss and wipe me off the map instead."
"It's the luck of the draw, I guess."
"Thanks, it's good to know that I can count on you to provide me with defense," Canada droned with a lazy shrug of the shoulders before collapsing on the futon. "Did you stock up on ketchup chips?"
America wrinkled her nose. "Over my dead body. I've said it once and I'll say it again—how can you eat those things?"
"You just need to give them a chance. You're so hesitant to open up to new tastes," her twin defended, enjoying the warmth of the house and stretching out his legs with a little sigh of content. "On the bright side, your weather is great for this time of year. October's not too friendly on my side of the border."
America snorted as she procured some soda for them and returned to the living room. "And whose fault it that? Get yourself a country with a better climate."
"Hey, we have an occasional heatwave; it's not frigid all of the time."
"Right, please enlighten me on how tropical your beaches are."
"Forget it—you're so insensitive toward me."
America rolled her eyes and plopped onto the recliner across from her brother, debating whether she had the time to paint her nails, considering the amount of paperwork that had piled up on her desk.
"The truth packs a punch," she mused, sorting through the bottles of nail polish that she had set on the coffee table. She narrowed her choices down to two colors and regarded Canada seriously. "Feisty Firecracker or Sunrise Salmon?"
Canada scratched his chin softly and made a noncommittal sound. "Feisty Firecracker. Giving yourself a makeover?"
"God knows it's been ages since I put any effort into my appearance. Let me indulge for once. Would you like a manicure as well?"
"That's very kind of you, but I'll have to pass."
"Suit yourself. It takes a real man to paint his nails," America teased, screwing off the cap of the red lacquer and frowning at the scent. "Not the best of smells, but that's the price of beauty."
The two settled into a comfortable silence as always, lost in their own thoughts as they relaxed. "How are things going these days?"
America squinted her eyes in concentration as she worked. "Well, we're not on the brink of human extinction anymore, so that's something, I'd say."
"It's no small feat," Canada agreed, watching America with growing interest. "Are you feeling all right?"
The question seemed to catch her off guard, and she smeared some excess lacquer on her finger. "Damn," she growled as she scrubbed the mistake away with a napkin. "Yeah, why do you ask?"
Canada chewed on his lip and turned over on his side to better see his sister. "You had your bouts of depression and anxiety when things were uneasy with Russia."
"I've been through worse," America consoled with a furrow. "However, if there is another World War, I think it'll be the end of me. Our strength is becoming uncontainable what with our weapons… But don't worry, if you accidentally get blown up, I'll make sure to avenge you."
"What a good Samaritan you are."
Her brother gave her a long look, taking in America's hunched posture and sunken eyes and realizing the duress that this war had placed her under. She tended to her manicure mechanically, rocking from side to side in impatience as she waited for the polish to dry.
And he spectated without comment, noting that something was different with his sister. Something about her stern furrow and harsh breaths made her seem less youthful. Time had aged America, and though she was far from full maturity, she seemed to have lost quite a bit of the joy in her eyes. A gloom hung over her head, and though it was faint, it would grow in intensity over time.
"I guess there are some pros to being your brother—namely the military defense."
And it was true, though he loathed to admit it. North America had been relatively untouched by foreign militaries for many decades, mostly due to America's presence. No one dared to creep too close except for the occasional Soviet skirmishes, and even then the battles never touched her shores.
Being even somewhat dependent on America was both a blessing and a curse because if he stood in her shadow, then who was he? How would he ever establish his own sovereignty by trailing along in his sister's footsteps?
He wanted to hate her for it, but couldn't find a strong enough desire.
If this Cold War had taught him anything, it was that America was capable of being volatile—blinded by disdain for those who questioned the system that had brought her so much prosperity and adoration.
But he still knew that those questions had to be asked regardless, and he hoped he'd have the courage to voice them when suitable.
Yet, for now, he would let her be without expressing his concerns.
After all, America always had a way of paddling onward, and who was he to deny her of that freedom?