My mind quits this entire century… What's the flux capacitor made of?

France likes to call me sometimes when he's drunk and has a kink in his back. Between sips of wine and bites of shrimp, he gripes about how he has to be so old when humans are so young and happy. How their lives are short and sweet. How they can live and love and find purpose in such a paltry few years before they have to rest forever. He cries over their suffering, then does a complete one-eighty and shames them for feeling bad when they don't have an eternity of hardship on their shoulders.

You'd think time moves swiftly for nations. You'd think we're these eternally youthful figures who just pop in and out of time whenever it's convenient, watching years flit by like little birds under our fingers. But as Austria puts it, "Life is an endless cycle of waiting for free shipping coupons and then waiting for a package to come in the mail. If there's anything that makes time feel like torture for immortal beings, it's when you buy all fifteen colors of the newest yarn cake, and the tracking data doesn't update for an entire week after shipping."

But that's Austria's vice, not mine.

My vice is nostalgia.

My beady red eyes take in the flashing numbers on the digital clock beside the bed. 4:59AM. They glide up to the lump of my brother still softly snoring under the covers of his own bed, still in his work shirt from yesterday. I made him stay up to fill out paperwork with me. He was probably worried that if he didn't watch me go to bed, I'd go have a beer with Hungary and teach her how to speak Geophonion.

He's nuts if he thinks she can pronounce the word ⩡Yann(js)+tbfAăßß=0.

(That means "fiscal cliff.")

I can feel the earth rotating beneath me, like a crystal timepiece. Three… two… one…

The clock changes. 5:00AM.

Like a steel automaton, I pop up from the covers and place my socked feet on the carpet. My mechanical legs propel me into the bathroom, where I scrutinize my disheveled appearance. Bedhead! Stubble! Slouching posture! These are not the marks of a good Prussian soldier and must be terminated immediately!

My finger is a blade as I point to the toiletry bag. The razor shoots at me with blinding speed, and I seize it right before it can slice my beakish nose right off. Splash, splash, and zrrrrr, zrrrrrr, and the bristles line the bottom of the sink. My face is smooth and perfect as a little Austrian baby's bottom!

My shoulders stiffen. My spine straightens. I breathe in and out, feeling something heat up deep within. Every time there's an opportunity for me to visit Sanssouci, that power of nostalgia rips me apart from the inside out. I'm literally swelling with the old spirit. My ruby eyes widen, amazed, as my flesh responds to the tangible memories. My hands bubble and broaden. My arms and chest puff up with aching new bulges of muscle. Even my abs are sore, and when I lift the pajama shirt, I see them popping and coiling until they're tight and dense under the canvas of skin.

I'm still in great shape this century, but damn… this was my prime. I can feel the incredible strength of a kingdom zipping through these swollen limbs. Another look in the mirror steals my breath. I look younger. My jaw's a bit softer. My lips are more flush. My hair tickles the back of my neck as it lengthens. I snap my fingers, and a ribbon shimmers from nothing to tie it up back there.

Well, the ripped pajamas won't help! Pink — no, PRUSSIAN BLUE lightning crackles over my whole body, changing this ruined fabric into the heavy garb of the old days. The shirt. The waistcoat. The coat. The sash. The WOOL UNDERWEAR! (Don't really miss that, actually…) And to top it off, I set the tricorn hat atop my snowy head. I look absolutely wicked. A mythical man straight out of the annals of history! Germany's going to have a real fright this time around! My smirk grows evil as I pull on my gloves and stomp back into the bedroom.

"ARE YOU SLEEPING STILL, LITTLE VOLE IN THE EARTH!? LITTLE MOUSY VERMIN!?"

"Get lost," Germany grumbles from under the covers. I can feel him straining. He wants this. He wants to get up and seize the day, but he doesn't want me to kick him around.

I kneel down next to his head and place my huge gloved hand over his face, squeezing just hard enough to warrant a groan.

"Are you not listening to your superior, you little sleepy swine? Would you rather rise late in the morning and throw your whole day away for one moment of pleasure?"

"Don't do this, brother. We had ice cream yesterday. We're not having it today, too."

"You're not getting ice cream at all. You're getting a good beating—"

Germany tries ripping my hand off his face, only to realize just how large and powerful it is now. I show him mercy and take it away just so I can wrench him out of bed and slam him on the floor of the hotel room. He gapes up at my towering form.

"You look…"

"Two hundred years stronger? You're very perceptive, mousy swine. Now get your squishy ass into some clothes and convince me you've one morsel of worth in this world."

There's no use arguing. Germany scrambles up off the floor and gets dressed and groomed, all while I'm badgering him this way and that. I strike from under him, slapping his stockingless ankles. I appear in the mirror, berating him for his own bedhead and stubble. I float above him, around and around, as I dare him to put on a manlier disposition. Oh, this was so much fun back in the day!

"Prussia, Germany, would you like to have breakfast with us?" Hungary asks from the ice machine in the hallway. Germany doesn't even spare her a glance, and when I catch her gaze, I merely tip my hat and tell her we've more gallant quests to fulfil before any pleasure may be had. Austria sniffs, then whispers something about me stuffing the chest of my costume. I snap my fingers behind my back, and he slips on an invisible banana peel.

"PUT YOUR BACK INTO IT, YOU HUMDRUM HEDGEHOG! I'VE NEVER SEEN SUCH A SPINELESS CREATURE! ARE YOU A SQUIRREL FOR MY SPIT!? A RABBIT FOR MY MITTENS? DON'T YOU DARE THINK ABOUT THE WARMTH OF ANGORA WOOL! THAT'S FOR THE LADIES! YOUR BLOODY WORK WOULD BLOODY THOSE MITTENS, AND YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'D LOOK LIKE, THEN? A RED-FURRED FRENCHY FOX!"

Germany's cheeks are burning red as we sidle past all the families in the parking lot.

"ARE YOU A FRENCHMAN? WILL YOU NOT OPEN THE DOOR FOR YOUR GENERAL? TOO AFRAID TO GET YOUR HANDS DIRTY? YOUR HANDS HAD BETTER BE SANITIZED IF YOU'RE GOING TO SERVE ME! OR WOULD YOU RATHER I REPLACED YOU WITH A SCHNAUZER!? A LITTLE DOG SNIFFING THE GROUND FOR RATS!? HIS FACE IS UNSHAVEN, BUT HE CAN BARK AND BITE!"

His hands are shaking. I know he can't stand this, but he puts up with it just so I can have my fun. He's probably the only person who could put up with my screeching. America never once said he respected me, though I know he did, and even Fritz himself popped a vein or two when I burst into his planning room with news of my exploits.

Fritz… I'm coming… I'm going to visit you today! I hope you're proud of me, old man!

After getting kicked out of a few restaurants and gas stations, we arrive at Sanssouci Park. Gilbird flutters up to buzz and chirp around my head, just like he used to whenever I laughed at a particularly amusing joke.

"GET OUT OF YOUR GLORIFIED CUSHION, PEASANT! WE MUST PATROL THE GROUNDS! THIS PALACE IS HIS HIGHNESS' GREATEST GIFT TO THE KINGDOM! A TANGIBLE ODE TO THE SIMPLE, UNENCUMBERED LIFE! DO YOU HEAR POETRY IN THE SILENCE!?"

"I can't hear the silence," he mumbles.

"DO NOT TALK BACK TO YOUR SUPERIOR!" I scream, punching him full-on in the shoulder. He idles for a second, as if forgetting where he is, then straightens his back and marches, leading me on into the park.

It's not too full of visitors this time of year. In summer, the park blooms with over 70,000 flowers, and hundreds of people come to see a king's vision of living "without a care." Now the grounds are gold and brown and green in the sonnets of autumn. Leaves flutter lazily down, only to be crunched under my heavy boots. This place was Fritz's sanctum. Not a military establishment, but a retreat. A leisure home. A pleasure palace. Complete with fountain after fountain after fountain.

"I CAN HEAR YOU SHUFFLING YOUR FEET IN THE LEAVES! PICK THEM UP! SHOW SOME RESPECT TO YOUR KING AND COUNTRY! WE DON'T TRUNDLE LIKE THE RUSSIANS, DO WE?"

A few gasps across the way alert me to a group of offended Russian tourists. Germany's going fully pink, but though times have changed, this park feels ageless to me. I remember when those trees were planted. I remember the water first pooling in the ponds, and feeding the ducks that first swam there. I remember when the earth was lower, before these hundreds of years filled out the soil with layers of leafrot, carefully gardened and maintained.

We pass the Chinese teahouse, surrounded by its ornate palm tree columns and a host of guardian statues garbed in gold. The place is like a decorated jewelry box with its ribboned outer walls and elegant shrubbery. I close my eyes and see the whole inside as I remember it. Chandeliers and candles galore. Paintings and pots. A floor for dancing, or courting, or simply standing in silence and looking out upon the sprawling gardens. Fritz tried to teach me tea etiquette, but his father before him had made me a fighter, not a flirter, and those lessons never held much weight.

I want to throw open those doors and find myself in the arms of someone long gone, but that's just impossible…

"YOUR LEGS ARE WEAK!" I shout at Germany, now cantering before me. I haven't realized how quickly we're traversing the grounds. With a leap, I throw myself on his back and grip his sides with my own meaty legs. He's braced himself for this, unwavering. By this time, he's figured out that showing annoyance only encourages me. Smart boy. Good boy.

"CARRY ME TO THE CASTLE! SHOW ME THE COLUMNS, THE WINDOWS, THE GREAT WINDOWS!"

Maybe he was expecting my mounting of his back, but he's unused to me weighing so much. Seriously, what kind of ab workouts did I do in the 18th Century? What kind of bicep curls got me this buff? And where did it all go? I wasn't this strong in the World Wars, and after that, I know I lost muscle, but why can't I replicate that old regimen? Was it all the riding I did?

Must have been all the riding. If my thighs were still this thick in the 21st Century, I'd actually take the time to shave them.

In this moment, my thighs grip hard, and we're racing between the great walls of orange and yellow trees, straight down the aisle to the palace. The autumn air is crisp and sweet in my lungs. I spread my arms wide and feel it writhing and twisting around my uniformed body. This is my wind. This is my land. This is me.

Germany reaches the foot of Sanssouci and stops, but refuses to pant. I dismount and slap him across the face for stopping without my command, but then I give him a little smirk and some happy pats on the back.

"CAN YOU FEEL IT? THE POWER OF THIS PLACE? THE POWER OF THIS GLORIOUS NATION SURGING FORWARD? IN THE WIND? IN THE EARTH? IN THE MUSIC OF THE SKY? BREATHE, YES, BREATHE, AND KNOW YOU ARE BORN OF IRON AND GREATNESS!"

He stands with his back straight, his cheeks the color of beets. Whether that's from embarrassment or leather, I'll find out eventually.

As I continue to scream at him, a crowd gathers. Tourists, park managers, gardeners, curators, all to either scold me for being so loud on solemn property or to take pictures of my reenactment. With each stroke of attention, my voice swells louder. Earth power combusts and blazes in my heart. In the faces around me, I see annoyance turned to awe.

This is my home.

This is me.

I remember this place. Do you remember me?

I take off my hat. No contacts in today, and my eyes are bloody red as they scan the great castle grounds. This is mine. It was mine…

"Prussia," a voice says behind me. It's not Germany. It's a different voice. Maybe higher-pitched, or womanly, or deeper than Germany's. I can't tell, but it says my name so sweetly and so confidently. It knows my name. It knows my heart and mind, and recognizes them and acknowledges them.

The fabric of reality loosens and wrinkles like a transparent sheet made of bubbles. The wind picks up, and my body disappears in a storm of swirling leaves. I feel like I'm falling, but I'm not moving at all. It's the strangest sensation, as if I'm moving slowly through a stream of water or a tunnel of liquid glass. Even Gilbird is swept away by the razor-sharp gale of twisting matter and essence.

I watch the trees shrink and the flowers wither away into nothing but grass.

The park is empty now. I can't feel Germany anymore, at least… not directly. No tourists are scattered on the grounds. No signs mark the historical and cultural significance. That much is simply known, never forgotten or faded through the generations.

"Straighten your back, swine."

I turn around. With as sour a look as ever, Fritz sits on the steps and judges me.

"You're alive," I whisper.

Then I'm running at him and hugging him and sobbing all over his lapels.

"You're supposed to be in Hungary, Prussia. And why do your breeches feel like they're stuffed with potatoes? Have you been stealing from the gardens? That's good of you, at least. We need to encourage others to steal from the potato gardens, too. These stupid people won't accept a miracle food unless we make it seem contraband."

I pull away from him and wipe my eyes. He continues giving me an odd look. I reach into my pants and pull out all the potatoes… the potatoes I was going to place on Fritz's grave before crying all over Germany and begging him for ice cream.

Potatoes…

King…

This is the past, I realize. My nostalgia trip was so powerful I warped myself back in time…

I salute my sovereign and fight the incredible rush of excitement tingling in my bones.

"Do you think we can steal some potatoes together? Just for today? Just today, and then I'll get back to Hungary."

Fritz rises and places his hands on my shoulders, inspecting me for madness. Even I wouldn't pull such a non sequitur. Maybe I'm from the future, but at least I've got the muscle and crazy eyes of my past self, so I'm not too suspicious.

Then he nods. "All right, Prussia. Just for today."

He pats my head, and I'm sobbing again.

~N~

I finished my Prussia prayer shawl! It's 26 inches wide and has 26 scallops on the edge, as 26 is the chemical number of iron.

Also, this is the first episode with the new cover art! My own drawing~

Updated by Syntax-N on FanFiction . Net November 15th, 2020. It's okay to eat a crapton of pizza, but be responsible! And drink water! Don't repost.