America remembered England trying to explain to him what Shakespeare had meant when America was little. Instead of normal short bedtime stories, England would often read scenes and acts from William Shakespeare's works. Being little at the time, America had no idea what England was talking about half the time. So yes, America wasn't too fond of that sort of English.
But it didn't take a genius to figure out what Dark England has said.
"How now?" Dark England asked, cocking his head a little. "Why bear the mask of perturbation? Thy looks betray thine anticipation."
"Holy hamburgers," America groaned. "He rhymes too!"
Dark England gave America a cold look but showed no sign of attacking. Yet. "Hold thy tongue, I pray." he said icily. "Or, if thou wilt not, thou shalt play."
"Play what?" England demanded, ignoring the slightly puzzled looks from the others.
America sucked in air sharply. "You wanna play a game? A game? Dude, this is totally like those Saw movies I saw last week! This is not cool, man, so not cool!"
"T'is not much." another voice said. It was still England's voice, but niether Dark England nor England spoke. America glanced behind them and gaped at another Dark England coming towards them. "One game, just the one."
"There are two of you?" America and France asked England, astounded.
"There are two of me?" England stared at the new Dark England.
"Nay," his voice said from a new direction. Another Dark England stepped out from behind the first. "Replicas of thy replica, we all are you."
Several more appeared, and while America wondered how there were so many, England answered his question instantly. "You're using my magic to create copies of yourself."
"Our magic." they corrected calmly.
"This isn't very manly." France retorted. "All of you fighting us, it's not fair." There were more than a dozen of Dark Englands now. Many of them were casually poised; a couple of Dark Englands sat on a near by bench, legs crossed and arms folded. A few were facing each other as if having a pleasant conversation, paying no attention to the real nations at all. Some were leaning against the trees by the road and a couple sat on the grass, picking at the green blades, bored.
"So many..." Italy murmured. America immeditately stepped in front of Italy, arms spread out protectively.
"Fight, sirrah?" Dark England number one (was it number one? They could have all shifted and moved places without any of them realizing it) asked, amused. "Sweet blood, staining the aged Gaea from your famished bullets, of which doth take valued life, mortal treasure, and dirty ourselves with rowdy frays and violent plays. T'is energy wasted when naked words alone overthrows victory."
America frowned at the Dark England that talked. "Wait...could you repeat that?"
"You idiot," England scowled at America. "He's saying that they don't need to fight when they can just talk us down."
America cracked his knuckles. "Oh, so you all think you can trash talk me? Bro, I'm the King of Trash talk! Uh, but let me warm up a bit, I don't really usually trash talk unless I'm like, really pissed off."
"Skainsmate, thou art." Dark England number unknown scolded America. "Rebelious subject, enemy to my citizens and citizens overseas. Foolish talk of freedom when thou knowest not of freedom. Unrestrained to heed, breathe once an airy word and thy gun is drawn, loaded, eager to be shot."
America blinked blankly at Dark England. "What's a skainsmate?"
"He's technically calling you a gangster." England told America sharply. "I'd agree with him if he wasn't an enemy."
America gave England a slightly offended look. "Well I'm not that rowdy, am I?"
"Stop arguing." France said urgently. "You'll get us killed if you two keep fussing."
"They won't kill us." England scolded. "They kill us, they kill themselves." Then he snapped his head around to face the Dark England that had talked to them. "So a game, is it? Alright you bloody doppelganger...s. What are we playing?"
The Dark Englands then all looked at the real England, a knowing smile plastered onto their faces. "I pray, have you kept record of the original copy?"
"Original copy, so, the real doppelganger, right?" America asked England for confirmation. When England nodded bitterly, America exclaimed, "Then how are we supposed to play the game? I don't know which is which!"
"The point exactly." England said to America in a low tone. "So we have to find the real Dark England, right? How do we determine that?"
"We'll tell." Dark England number unknown said lightly. "I am a man of mine word."
France tilted his head towards Engand and whispered, "So what, do we go ask them all who is who?"
"No, sir." a Dark England said. France stared at him in disbelief, not seeing how he could have heard. "Promises made are promises kept; truth spoken is truthfully spoke. But a promise to speak is a promise not made. Approach if thou wilt but provoke us, and provoke thou surely wilt, and we haven't the fear to provoke back."
Before America, France, or Italy could say anything, England muttered, "They say that they'll tell the truth but they won't talk, so we won't know. We have to approach them, and I think that means fight in this situation, but if we do, they fight back."
"I thought they said they don't want to fight!" Italy cried in alarm.
England frowned. "When I mean 'they', I think I might have meant in general."
"Oh great, so now we have to fight them?" America groaned. "Dude, that's gonna take forever."
"Continuance of the play shant happen. Once approached, once defended. Twice approached, twice defended. Approached not, defended not." a few Dark Englands said coolly.
The four were surrounded; there was no escape and if the doppelgangers allowed them to get to the ones that strayed from the group and try to escape from there, they would surely follow in a dangerous pursuit. From what they got, if they hit once, they'll get hit back once but the doppelganger and the doppelganger's doppelgangers wouldn't continue to fight. France and America found it silly; how would that help them find the real doppelganger and when they found the real one, what good will it do? Why did Dark England even want to play the game anyway?
Or was he just stalling?
Gritting his teeth, England yelled, "Alright, we'll play your game! We'll find the real one and we'll win!"
"Ve, England!" Italy yelled out. "How are you going to do it? There's too many!"
America tapped his chin, trying to let his panicky feelings subside. "Let's try to think logically." America said nervously.
"Logically, huh?" France asked. "How smart of you America. A strategy here will be best, non?"
England surveyed the doppelgangers around them. None of them were paying attention to them anymore. The game has started and if Dark England was stalling, then they better become un-stalled. If he was the original in a crowd of fakes, he would probably be the one farthest away from whoever was hunting you down. Looking for the furthest doppelganger, England nudged America in the ribs and whispered his idea to him.
France and Italy leaned in to listen to England and France's eyes shone. "Ah, mon cher, you are bright indeed! And to think that I thought you weren't as big as you say you are."
England gave France an irritated look. "I'm not sure if I should take that as a compliment or an insult. Perhaps the latter?"
While France started to argue with England, America dashed towards the Dark England furthest away from them. That Dark England was at the shore of Lake Michigan, standing in ankle deep water. He had his hands stuffed into his pockets and he seemed to be staring at the sky.
America thought that he'd be able to catch that Dark England by surprise; he balled his right hand into a fist and prepared to deal a blow to Dark England.
But Dark England suddenly ducked underneath the blow and swept his leg under America, lifting him off his feet. America landed on the sand, stunned at the speed of Dark England. Dark England glanced down at him, laughter dancing in his eyes. "Thou art loud. Thy footsteps matches well with the powerful thunder sans power."
America got up to his feet, brushing the wet sand from his pants. "Are you the real one?" he asked sulkily, upset that he didn't even land a blow.
"Dost thou think I tell so easily?"
America stared at him for a while. "Well, you're avoiding an answer. If you said yes, then you'd give yourself away. If you say no then I can count you off the list and it narrows it down."
That Dark England raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
America paused, thinking. And then, out of nowhere, he punched Dark England in the face. He heard a crack and his knuckles instantly became bloody. The Dark England he punched stumbled back quickly but retaliated. Luckily, America wasn't hit; he knew that Dark England's instincts would kick in and if he was him, a punch would be the first thing in mind. He was right; Dark England punched but he only punched the air above America.
The Dark England scowled but didn't fight on, just like the other copies of Dark England had said. America wanted to stay and jeer but he thought better of it and left, still wondering which was the real Dark England.
America found that England and Italy were gone from where they last were and France was the one who remained. While America told his story, England and Italy went to confront another Dark England. England had thought that if he wouldn't be the furthest one away, he would be the one higher up; the height advantage.
There was one perched on top of a tree branch, swinging his legs at a leisurely pace. The Dark Englands around the tree watched as England and Italy approached but they didn't do anything. England glared at the one perched on the branch and the Dark England up there glared back at him, as if challenging him to do something.
"Ve..." Italy worriedly looked between the real England and the fake on the branch. England had asked him to come with him but he wasn't sure why. Honestly, Italy would rather be back home eating pasta with Romano, Germany, and Japan. But then again, he remembered he was in the Best Buds Group and he wanted them to join in as well (Japan was already in the group anyway).
The thought about eating pasta with his friends was a happy though, and Italy slipped a smile.
The Dark Englands around him tensed a little, as if disgusted by the warm smile. They looked away from Italy and focused on the welcomed glare of England.
"Good sir, what business dost thou have here?" the Dark England on the branch asked coldly. "Why art thou here when thou could be thither?" He pointed to the mass crowd of Dark Englands loitering on the road. "If thou art sentient, thou wilt return."
"Yes, well, you see, it's much too cramped over there." England muttered, glancing back. "It's much more roomier here. And besides, you have an advantage."
Dark England's face didn't show any sign of emotion. He merely looked down at England and Italy with a fierce look of indifference, but it varied from here and there. There would be signs of irritation and heartless mirth.
England drew his gun and aimed at Dark England. The Dark Englands around them scoffed at him but said nothing more. The Dark England that England was aiming at blinked at the gun. "How now? Thou hast drawn but stalls to do damage? What man art thee if thou art truly a man?"
"What man? Why, I'm a gentleman, of course." England said.
Italy clapped his hands over his ears as England pulled the trigger. The Dark England that had been shot attacked back by sending a flash of light towards them. England saw it coming and pushed Italy out of the way while the Dark England's magic cut a long gash into his chest. It wasn't deep, luckily, but it still stung.
As Italy hurriedly asked if England was okay, England stared up at the Dark England on the branch. That Dark England's wound didn't heal.