I turn America into a puppet… Just how weird is this kid?

Crack ahead. XD

"Can I call you P?"

I look to America, lounging on the one piece of furniture in his townhouse that managed to survive four decades under the same butt. His mouth is half full of tortilla chips dipped in green gunk, and his elbows are twitching the way they do when he's excited.

I pop the footrest up on my recliner and ease into its plushness. My fingers interlock, and I give the boy a fatherly smirk.

I must have timed-out his brain because he asks the same question again.

"Can I call you P?"

"Pee? Like—"

"Like Q, except P. Ya know Q? Omnipotent space troll from Star Trek? Slapping powers on your ego makes you pretty Q-ish. I guess you're not overly patronizing, though."

"Mind your Ps and Qs and eszetts, America. Why did you invite me here? I was about to try haunting that old computer of Switzerland's to tell him he needs a new one. Knowledge of my abilities is a secret of the highest order. With someone of your… callowness knowing, I'm not sure how much I should reveal."

"Hey, that sounds just like... Wait a minute, don't take me for some kid. I'm older than Germany, and I can be just as brilliant."

"Germany's like my son. You can't surpass his awesomeness just by saying so. But about that, what's 'Cosmic Americus?' That thing you said in the bathroom? Is it a secret spell?"

America lowers his gaze. He crinkles up the bag of chips before I wave my hand and it flies over to where I'm sitting. Ach, they're so salty, but good! And with the green gunk, they're tangy! I can probably survive on space dust alone, but lowly human food! So yummy!

"It's… it's a secret codeword. If I'm dreaming when I say it, I get these gloves and a mask, and I know I'm a-okay to start manipulating my dream world."

"You're a lucid dreamer?"

I say it with some interest. America lifts his chin and gives a little grin, as if he's just found someone who can match him in hamburgers per minute. "One time, when I was feeling edgy, England zoomed over to my place and took me out into the woods, and he tried to teach me meditation, to feel EP for relaxation and all that. It's… it's not a hobby I really picked up."

"I don't see it."

"You think I can sit still for five minutes? Absolutely not. And that's why I dream. When I'm stressed or have this new idea or just wanna have fun, I create an entire world and jump right in. Outer space, underwater, mountains, fantasy worlds, I've been to all of them. And that's my secret. There's no way America can feel down when he can hang out with Martians!"

For the love of "P," quit hurting this boy with your silly sad stories.

"My power isn't all for shits and giggles like a dream, America," I tell him.

"Shiggles?"

"Shiggles. Ja. The 'P' factor isn't for shiggles. I'm literally breaking down everything science has ever strived to know. I'm not supposed to exist. I could be unstable. I can't even keep myself confined to this body sometimes. I feel my skin getting tighter, like I'm straining to grow, and my consciousness escapes my brain and rattles my vision, and I have to warp myself into the fourth dimension when that happens because there at least I can evaporate and reconstruct safely."

He's diligently taking notes on his phone.

"Uh-huh. So are you confined to known physics, or is there some ulterior supernatural element?"

"What are you going to use these infos for?"

"Dunno. Prob'ly just stack 'em up and use 'em for cracking all my conspiracies. I won't tell anyone. Everyone already has some weird theory about your existence anyway."

I lean forward, squeezing my fingers to crush the chip bag into a miniature cube. "Why don't I just do a safe little demonstration? Anything you want, but one thing. I could… transport you to the edge of the galaxy. I could turn your fingers into tentacles. I could make your wildest fantasy real… more or less. I won't do naughty stuff."

"Could you really do that? Make the imaginary real?"

"I flooded my basement with imaginary chicks. I can pull anything out of your brain. Just think of it."

So America squints his eyes and nods when he's ready. Going over to him, I extend my wiggling fingers and slip them into the little bubble of Anticanon floating over his head. So cute how he can't see it. From nowhere, I pull out a small vial full of a bluish fluid that looks a bit like ocean-scented body wash.

"This it?"

Starry eyes widen into mini galaxies. "Yeah," he whispers. "That's… that's it."

"What is it?"

"A Simple Praxium Solution. SPS. That one's SPS-I. Praxium is a rare and precious energy source only found in certain parts of the galaxy. Its power is immense, and dangerous in the wrong hands. But if I drink that solution in my dreams, I get a pretty sweet power-up that's good in a pinch."

"Cool," I say before gulping down the contents. The stuff tastes exactly like ocean-scented body wash.

America jumps up and grabs my shoulders. "You probably shouldn't have done that."

"What? So I drank your potion. What kind of power-up do I get?"

My question is answered by an obnoxiously loud gurgly-glorp-blorp.

A weird twinge turns to a tightness in the center of my stomach that quickly erupts into painful churning. My gesturing left hand slides down to trace over my shirt, then squeezes inward. My legs buckle, and I'm on my knees, clutching my abdomen in both arms. I'm going to throw up. I can feel it. Whatever that "Praxium" is, it's poisoned me.

"Oh God, you don't have the tolerance. It's hittin' you full force. This is just like the first time it happened to me in a dream!"

"What is this shit!? What's it doing to me!?" I howl, rolling onto my back. I try concentrating some healing energy in my palms and rubbing my stomach, but my innards won't be calmed. They're burbling and bubbling like some magical reaction is swelling within to displace all my organs at once. A gruesome groan rocks my whole core, and I squeeze my jaw tight.

America's expressionless now, but disturbed as he is, there's also a fiery fascination sparking in his eyes. A strange tingling sensation is spreading out from my solar plexus. It wraps around my limbs and forces its way up into my head. It's cold, yet hot. Does something smell good? Grainy and savory? My stomach squeezes in on itself, and I whine in sudden hunger.

"What's happening, you fool!? Why do I have the urge to eat an entire bathtub of… something?"

"W'll, cravings are a good sign. The aggressive mutation is working its way through your system."

"Ha! America the mad scientist!"

I can't say anything more. A new stab of pain hits me right in the gut, and my hunger expands. I finally wrestle my shirt off in time to see whatever "mutation" this is reach the surface of my body.

Oh, so my abs are melting.

I screech… in a manly way.

I place both hands on my stomach to feel it bloating just slightly before seeming to soften and fold into itself. The abs I had melt completely away, and an incredible tightness in the remaining muscle forces me to suck in my breath. There's a squelch of sorts. I hear my ribs bending and crackling. My spine grows jagged behind me as the skin shrinks around it.

Fearful yet intrigued, I steal a look at my quivering hands. The same muscle pulsations start heating up, and the flesh bubbles loosely over the bones. My fingers start to stretch, then snap as they reach a new length and flexibility. The overall shape grows lighter. Lither. Softer. The knuckles are fluid in their movements, yet feel a bit stiff and achy. But I can't focus on that forever. My arm muscles burn as they're squeezed to a pulp and regrown into leaner variants. A pressure on my chest steals my breath away, and I watch it shrink with everything else into a rather hairy version of its former iron glory.

"An old age power-up?" I manage to spit out. My voice cracks. I hold a hand to my throat and feel even my neck starting to slim down. A painful crunch dislocates my jaw and breaks my skull in places before everything re-meshes again. Bursts of heat echo throughout my skeleton. My bones feel like butter, and a high-pitched squeal escapes my throat when they morph. My fingers grow a bit longer. My spine retreats into a reformed back. My ribs mold into place under a thin frame. My leg bones seem to grow, even, and I'm shocked when I see the skin of my legs bloating up and swelling, tightening, hardening, stretching into steel.

My craving is clearer in my head now. I want something… a lot of something… Gott, I can't even think straight. I feel my nose squishing into itself, and my brain suddenly feels all fuzzy. It's like I'm refocusing on what's the most important.

Something hot. Wet. Fuzzy sunset light on a balcony. Potted flowers. Golden and glowing. Volcanoes. Splashes of peachy pigment creep into my skin and spread like a rash.

Soft. A bit salty for taste. My stomach gurgles again. I know how to make it. I've always known. Or have I? It doesn't matter. I'll improvise. But do I have the energy to improvise? Someone else can do it…

"Feels good," I burble out. My voice is way off, but why should that matter? I slick back the deep reddish strands of hair falling into my eyes and let my whole body relax.

"Dammit, America, make me pasta or I will shrivel up and fall into the sea."

I turn my head. America is white as a ghost and trembling.

"What?"

"Prussia… it's not you. Build up tolerance. You only want the speed. Fight the cravings."

Prussia… wait, am I Prussia? Oh shit, I'm Prussia!

I force myself up onto slender legs and fall into America. He grabs my arms and straightens me. I gasp at my body. These idle hands, always tapping the meeting table and sneaking looks at cartoon fairy pictures when the infos get dull.

"Did I ficking just turn into Italy?" I ask, and the curse sounds horrible in that bouncy countertenor.

"Praxium allows you to take another's physical form. You get his speed and agility, and allies are more likely to show up if you call for them."

"America, our friends are not video game skins you can just morph into in your dreams!"

"To be fair, there's a Prussia potion, too. That one gives wicked wise-cracking abilities, plus floating and permeation. I based it on you being part ghost."

My eyes, already squinty, narrow until they're nothing but tiny slits. I wish I could look angry, but something tells me these big pink cheeks are incapable of scowling. "That's a completely different insult to address, but right now my skin smells like pizza sauce and I want to inhale an entire bathtub of pasta, so you're going to pay for this by making it. Maybe I'll give you a power-up as well."

"Woah, like, imbue me with godlike power? Dude, you gotta try out the speed. Er, I guess this isn't a dream."

Now, the next two words I have tried and tried again to save for a special time and most certainly for someone like Russia. America is too innocent to hear them, and he's probably the last person to deserve them. But after skipping off to the bathroom and seeing my smirky self replaced with the very face and curl of Veneziano, which I was not planning on happening even when I did get comfortable with changing shape, I decide America will suffer the full force of my wrath.

"Be felt."

"Huh? Is that in Italian?"

"Be felt, you fool!" I cry, extending my hand in an artful flourish and enveloping him in my magical tug.

The change begins immediately, just like the first time I accidentally did it to Germany. America shivers and totally freaks when peachy fuzz sprouts from his skin. It travels rapidly up his arms and under his t-shirt. His hands quiver with a wet cricking before the bones dissolve into steam. He bends his fingers all the way back in horror, and when the fuzz reaches them, they bloat in size and shrink in length until they're perfect little felt hands.

"This doesn't seem like a power-up."

"Same," I say, increasing the intensity of my spell. America shrieks. I hear the hiss of unnecessary bones dissolving away. Ribs. Toes. Individual leg and arm bones. There's a different kind of creak and crack when his remaining bones break and stiffen into wood. In the cloud of steam, he's shrinking like a goblin. Skin loosens and warps and softens as the fuzz knits into every old follicle and transforms the flesh into felt.

The mist clears, and he now stands about three feet tall. Strings dangle from his limbs into some unseen oblivion, but who pays attention to where the strings go?

He takes off his glasses, huffs on them with his giant flap of a mouth, and puts them back on in one fluid motion. Then he does a strange wiggle dance and spreads his arms out wide, beaming. At least, I think he's beaming. He could also be scowling. He doesn't have moveable eyelids, so I can't tell.

"I'm a frickin' puppet! This was my secret wish!"

"It was?"

"You know nothing about Americans, dude. We all have the secret wish of getting turned into puppets. Now I can turn everyday situations into musicals! American puppet! Come give me a hug! American puppet! All cuddly and snug!

I'm about to say "Cosmic Americus" to check whether this is a dream, but I'll let him have his fun.

"All right! Make-a me pasta, funky puppet!"

~N~

Updated by Syntax-N May 28th, 2020. Reposters more cursed than this. Reviewers pasta.