I go skiing on the moon… In space, can anyone hear you fart?
Nations, as a people, have never been much interested in outer space.
The argument could be made that during the Cold War, with East and West battling for lunar occupation, that those with rocket power were nuts about having rocket power. Not true at all! Yes, nations get very excited about having rocket power! But only because it gives them might over others, and not for the actual purpose of a rocket, which is to shoot far away from the warm, primal comfort of the earth's surface. America would tell you he's nuts about everything spacey, but that's because he's nuts about science, not because he'd actually want to go to the moon.
We support our people's dreams, and we marvel at their progress, but though we're spawned by distinct social cultures, we receive our energy from the earth itself. So no, we're not interested in space.
But then the question could be asked: Am I interested in space?
I have traveled to other planes of existence, where my earth power can't easily flow to me, and survived like a daisy on the grave. (Death joke NOT intended.) I'm not wholly bound to the earth anymore, and my ascendedness is like a VIP pass through every celestial firewall and cosmic portcullis thrown at me. You know the event horizon? Screw the event horizon! I'll tell you what's back there! Events!
But anyway, space. Not sure what I think of it. I'm not an artist like Italy or France, and I'm more of a pragmatist than a dreamer like America. Do the stars determine one's fate? With the absurdity of living nations, I'll buy it. Are the stars really just enormous gas balls far out in the cold reaches of human understanding? I'll buy that, too. It's the more humorous answer. Gas balls. Your fate is determined by gas balls! Ach, my fate is determined by gas balls. Well, I've already reached my fate, and how high I can fly now is a total mystery, completely beyond the stars' control.
I'm the stars' boss now!
There's no question that I can survive in the vacuum of space. Back when I was still adjusting to ascension, I sucked my whole head into the vacuum cleaner tube on accident and spent a good ten minutes trying to yank it off. Not a good day to spill cereal dust all over my hair. I'm still mad that Germany didn't get a picture. It was terrifying, but I would've totally shitposted it everywhere and waited for it to show up in one of those "Mr. Blue Sky" compilations.
I can float like a bird on the breeze. All I have to do in space is create my own gravitational field to hold my guts together and keep the blood flowing, which is easier done than said, since "awesome willpower" is less syllables than "gravitational field." Fick, my ego is a gravitational field all on its own. It's not hard to remember that according to the History channel, any point in the universe is actually the center, and when we're talking about Prussia, that tidbit isn't up for debate.
I'm thinking about space so much because I'm on the couch scrolling through my grand list of things I have yet to try with my powers. Well, one hand is scrolling, and the other is directing the vacuum cleaner hands-free around the living room. It's a delicate process.
Order 100 bagels at a café and smugly eat all of them
Doable, but underwhelming.
Convince Germany he's been in a Nerf war for the last 50 years
Mm, but I was lectured last week after convincing Netherlands he needs to water his hair
Rewrite history so Charlie Wright never existed
What can I say? Not my Rodrick. Not even my Roderich.
Plant Prussian flag on the moon
I crinkle my nose at my phone. This one has been on here for ages. I've had the flag all starched and poled up ever since I got this idea. It's just the hassle of getting it to the moon that annoys me. I suppose I'm being lazy, but it's hard to gauge laziness when I want to pop over to the moon as much as I want to pay attention to the vacuum cleaner.
Oh crap, it got into the curtains!
After sorting that out, I look back at the list. All right, the moon is doable and quick. I rush downstairs to grab the flag and head out to the backyard. I take some time slathering myself up in sunscreen, since solar radiation is harsher in space.
"Whatcha doin, Herr Beilschmidt?" The neighbor girl asks.
"Just off to the moon. You want anything?"
"Will you meet any aliens?"
"Not sure if Götz Otto counts as an alien, but I'll see what I can do."
I grin uncontrollably at the tickly, bubbly feeling taking hold of my body. The pressure of Earth's atmosphere releases, and I'm off and floating. Clutching the flagpole to my chest, I press my legs together and cut through the air as smoothly as any superhero. The wind blows my hair into a fluffy dandelion poof, and as I look down to see the curvature of the earth slowly easing into view, I suddenly realize I could have one hell of a time dropping toilet paper rolls from way up here.
Bonn shrinks to a tiny octopus. Germany itself folds from a vast land of adventure to a plot of space looking like a lopsided mushroom. If I were in the State of States, I'd see Germany's borders flaring up like golden aurorae.
The air grows thin, and I gasp. I won't die of suffocation, but the lack of substance in my lungs is jarring. The vacuum is formless, weightless, tasteless. It's cold on my tongue, but when I suck it in, I can't feel it flowing or blasting my throat. My blood shakes in my veins. My skin starts swelling and loosening.
"All right, keep it together!" I screech before my voice is completely lost to the void. I clench my hands into fists and remember who I am. The Mighty Prussia! My body is merely the outward reflection of the awesomeness within, and the universe should treat it with respect! No pulling and tearing, please!
My heart quits its palpitations and steadies once more. My aura is flickering around me. It's the color pink, like blood mixed with mud. It caresses me as it swirls, stabilizing the ego-powered gravity. My hair is still all poofy in the vacuum of space, but I won't become Prussia soup!
It's my own power sustaining me now. I breathe out of habit, but my heart beats strong without air. Now, where's that moon? A few hundred thousand miles away, I see? Not to worry. In space, there's no friction, which means extreme speed is only a matter of how much propulsion you've got. And Prussian willpower? That's more than enough for zipping through the stars.
I orient myself toward that glowing orb, then point my feet back toward the sun and… come on, go! Go!
"Ach," I curse noiselessly. Shooting forward without a source of propulsion is too much for my logic-oriented brain. I know it's possible, but I haven't gotten the hang of godlike commands. Looks like I'll need a little kick after all. I boost dimensional awareness in my left hand until it's stinging, then pull and stretch a bit of space-time behind me into a sort of slingshot. 3… 2… 1…
"I am awesome!" I roar, and that burst of confidence, combined with the ripple, launch me forward so fast I nearly let go of the flagpole. My eyeballs threaten to freeze over. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, then blasts back, clogging my throat. My skin is pasted to my bones, and I'm totally stiff. My blood rushes hot in my veins, but my ears and nose and toes all go numb in seconds. The solar radiation sparks and glimmers off my aura, creating a rainbow corona of magical energy.
I'm about to overshoot the moon by a lot, but when I see it hanging below me, I create a quick platform out of scattered matter and skid across it for about a hundred miles before coming to a stop… but it's at an angle, and I shoot off the edge.
Things in motion stay in motion! My logic-bending powers are unfortunately voluntary, and in this instant, I'm freaking out too much to simply say "stop." The momentum is incredible. I'm careening toward the lunar surface at a speed that would light me on fire with any oxygen around. My hands grip the flagpole for dear life. Maybe I won't get crushed by those big gray rocks, but they look painful! Poor Germany's chakras.
1000 meters above the surface. 700, 600… I wriggle myself into a better position. Do I want to go face-down? Butt down? Roll on my side? I'm sweating so much trying to decide, and the sweat is freezing into crystals over my eyebrows. Wait…
I drag my hand through the ice crystals and get a brilliant idea.
"All right, melt," I voice, ruffling up my hair. My hand glows pink, and before the ice can vaporize from the quick energy transfer, I scoop it all up as a liquid sphere and thrust it down to squeeze between my shoes. I kick both legs out while throwing myself into a wicked somersault, and with the momentum…
SCHLIK SCHLIK
Two skis made of ice stretch out from my toes. I blow over them, coating them with an extra layer of frost for strength, then angle my body and prepare for impact. I'm coming up on a crater, 200 meters, 100, 50, 25, 10…
Don't try this at home, ladies!
BLOOSH! A cloud of regolith blows up all around me when the skis touch down. I hold up the flagpole to balance, but the fine dust is clouding my vision, and I'm forced to keep my eyes closed. My nose and throat sting from the stuff. I cough ceaselessly. My tongue is all grainy. I feel myself swallow heaps of dust, and it slides down to sit uncomfortably in my churning stomach.
But after the initial cloud, I crack my eyes and marvel at my skills! Behind me is a wave of moon dust cascading like any surfer's dangerous friend. I lean forward and cut through ancient soil, weaving and twisting and blowing up great piles of silvery stuff behind me. My balance is on-key! I hop over boulders and skid around million-year-old debris. I'm makin' history, right here!
With nonexistent wind, I'm just cruising! But the moon has a bit of gravity, and I feel it as I come toward the bottom of the crater. I take to the rim and spiral inward until my battered skis come to a complete stop at the center. What a rush! I jump several feet in the air before coming down for a soft landing. My shoes make perfect little prints in the fine dust. I take the flagpole and write out a little message to the scientists:
Forever yours,
Preußen.
Then I stick it in the ground and flop into the lunar soil, absolutely exhausted. A normal person would've already died from inhaling so much dust, and I know I'm going to be scrubbing it out of my teeth and armpits and other regions for weeks.
Or I could just try vacuuming it off.
~N~
Bostick's Rodrick and Prussia are the same energy
Updated by Syntax-N June 14th, 2020. Reposters cUrSEd. Reviewers mMMM crOnChY mOOn dUST