(Thanks for the comments! :) I intend to include various pairings - not to mention various non-romantic relationships, but I reckon it's a little early to tell how things are going to turn out. But I will say one thing - there will most definitely be FrUK. By the way, cookies for anyone who can name all the references in the first paragraph of part 1.)
Once the shock wore off, the appropriate action seemed obvious.
“Well,” said Ireland. “The world’s going to end? I say we hit the pub!” The resultant yells of assent were enough to make even Germany (artificially deafened as he was) jump. “Well, that looks pretty unanimous,” she smiled.
“Drinks are on America, seeing as he’s the one whose alien decided to bring us our own personal apocalypse!” announced England. There was a considerable rush towards the doors.
“Wait!” yelled a voice from the back of the room, loudly enough to halt most of the nations in their tracks.
“... Belgium?”
Indeed it was Belgium who had spoken. “Think about this!” she pleaded. “We have 48 hours in which to live! Do you really want to spend the majority of them drunk?”
“If we keep drinking continuously, we might not even have to face the hangovers,” pointed out England, somewhat grimly. “It’s the best possible time to get drunk, if anything.”
“Don’t you want to make the most of the time we have left?” asked Belgium. “To say goodbye to each other... to our people...? And you, Ireland - and England! Alcohol – is that really your answer? At a time like this, are you going to behave like nothing better than cultural stereotypes? Where’s your pride? If there’s anything you never said to anyone here that you ought to have done – if anything remains undone, if apologies or thanks remain unspoken... don’t you realise that this is our last chance?”
There was a thoughtful silence, in which the nations looked abashed.
“Meh,” decided Ireland, eventually. “I’m fine with being a cultural stereotype at the moment. I mean, in this situation, it’s not so much the fact that we’ve got to make the most of the time we’ve got left so much as nothing matters anymore, so we may as well just say ‘screw it, I’ll do what I like’.”
The silence was subsequently filled by cheers; once more, the nations stampeded door-ward.
Tony felt the situation slipping out of his slightly luminous hands. Luckily, he had taken the precaution of sealing the door with a device native to his homeland. After all, as amusing as it would be, there was no need to cause mass chaos and panic across the human population of the Earth – the nations had to be kept inside. Luckily, superior technology had its uses. Breaking out of the room would be virtually impossible as, judging by the indignant yells, his dim-witted friends seemed to be in the process of discovering.
The resultant dismay was palpable. And loud. Very loud. Tony sat, passively, listening to the various indignant vociferations – most of them variations to the tune of I-swear-I’ll-smash-that-door-down, can’t-believe-I’m-stuck-with-these-idiots and how-will-I-survive-without-[insert appropriate cultural food here]-for-48-whole-hours.
Eventually, they calmed down; even the most perverse of toddlers need a small respite from their constant temper tantrums, after all.
And, oddity of all oddities, Tony’s plan appeared to be working.
They seemed thoughtful, at least. Some of them even struck up conversation with each other. This could prove to be quite an interesting psychological experiment.
Tony observed that Pauses Between Each Word and Polite to a Fault already seemed to be in deep discussion. But then, they had always been more placid than the others – not that this, of course, was a particularly difficult quality to achieve. Soapbox Wonder had, oddly, singled out I’m Fine with Being a Cultural Stereotype. And, of course, there was Pasta Freak, chattering away in Potato Man’s ear. It was all so utterly predictable and idiotic that Tony felt practically lobotomised by association.
Oh – and there was Heroic Host America, already seeking out Chronically Repressed.
Hehe, OP here thinks Ireland is fantastic. Cheers to Irish!anon for accepting the truth about Irish behavior should this particular plot ever happen irlXD England was also amusingly alcohol-oriented. They really are behaving like kids, and it's awesomeXD. Food fixation is really high among the nations, isn't it? Good job, authoranon ;)
I love Tony's nicknames for each of them. Especially the fact that only America seems to have a half-respectable and positive oneXD
(Soapbox Wonder is Belgium, because of her little speech a few minutes earlier. Heh, I don't think any country was exempt from being alcohol-oriented - unfortunately, they're destined to spend the majority of this fic in the conference room. Anyway, I'm going to try and write about as many nations as possible, but apologies in advance if some countries are only mentioned briefly - because there are (let's face it) a lot of them! That said, some will have longer storylines. Enjoy! :))
-
“I wonder what happens when a country dies,” murmured Greece. “What it will feel like, I mean. What will actually happen.”
“After death?” Japan asked. “It would be nice if there was such thing as reincarnation,” he said, almost at random. “It is always nice to be given a second chance.”
“I could be reborn as a cat,” smiled Greece.
“Greece-san is not scared, then?”
Silence.
“What is there to be scared about?” Greece eventually asked.
Japan paused. Thought. Decided to paraphrase: “A lot.”
“Every human goes through this.” Another pause. “I suppose it’s only fair.”
-
“I always knew there was something – something malevolent about that ridiculous alien!” Ireland fumed at the nearest person – Belgium. Belgium looked a little startled.
“So, earlier I said something about never apologising or saying thank you and last chances and things,” said Belgium to Ireland, in what Ireland though was a rather non-sequiteur fashion.
“Yes. Yes you did.” Ireland was, to put it mildly, extremely frustrated. She felt like punching something, because everyone was so helpless and sometimes a futile gesture could be cathartic. Maybe she’d go and punch her brother, later.
“Well, it occurred to me that I never thanked you for – this is really embarrassing – but for World War One.”
Well. Ireland had not been expecting that. Particularly from someone who had lectured her several minutes ago.
Belgium rushed to explain, flustered. “I mean, you didn’t want to be part of the war at all. It wasn’t your fight – you were trying to get away from English rule and the last thing you needed was to be dragged along to his conflict. But when Germany and Prussia invaded, you came to help along with the others.”
Ireland shrugged. “Solidarity thing,” she said. “You were Catholic. Germany was mostly Protestant, and he was treating you as little better than a highway to France. No competition. Not even to annoy my brother.” Perhaps she would punch the alien, too. Actually, there was a point – why was nobody hanging, drawing and quartering that bloody alien?
“All the same, I never thanked you in particular,” Belgium persisted. “I always meant to, but after a few years of German control and not being able to get in touch, it seemed too late. Then, before I knew it, decades had gone by.”
“You were very brave, back then,” said Ireland, lightly. “We were fighting for the same thing. Our independence. Our integrity. Stuff. I think I’m going to punch the wall.”
“Yeah,” said Belgium, vaguely. “England kept calling me ‘poor little Belgium’. That was actually sort of condescending.”
“Condescending? My brother? Ha, perish the thought! My sister, North, always got on with him better, of course. There’s a thought – North, Wales and Scotland don’t know about any of this. They’re at home. I suppose it’s just as well. Anyway. Belgium. Don’t mention it.” Ireland looked away, to mask the traces of how pleased she was with an expertly crafted casual air. She focused on the hideous wallpaper instead. “God,” she muttered. “Now I know how Oscar felt. ‘Either that wallpaper goes, or I do’; tell you what, I guess it’s a compromise, because we’ll all be incinerated at the same time, wallpaper and all. Kind of funny!”
“Incineration. Yes... funny,” said Belgium, uncomfortably. She supposed they all had different ways of handling crises.
“’Turning and turning in the widening gyre/ The falcon cannot hear the falconer’,” murmured Ireland, suddenly serious.
(Also, Irish!anon, I am very jealous of your being Irish, because Ireland is amazing. Although it would be even more amazing to be French. I'm from England.)(Hope Arthur doesn't see that second-last statement as a betrayal!) -
“Germany! I don’t want to die. None of us want to die, I’m fairly sure, and it’s all so strange because one moment things were normal and the only person who was possibly going to die was France because England was strangling him but he was probably going to let him go in the end anyway and then suddenly we didn’t have close to forever to live but forty eight hours! And I’d really like some pasta before the Earth explodes but the doors are locked and there’s no way of getting to a kitchen even though I have some pasta in my pockets but there’s no boiling water in here so there’s no point...”
Germany watched Veneziano’s mouth move, and was vaguely aware that he was speaking words. He looked extremely unhappy, which was bad. Germany patted him absentmindedly on the shoulder. He was still wearing the ear plugs, though, and was loath to remove them when everyone else seemed to be so panicked – although, for the most part, they seemed to be calming down, which was a little worrying in of itself, but to question it seemed tantamount to looking a gift horse in the mouth. Probably there was a world pasta shortage, he decided. Something minor, at any rate.
“So I think we’re all going to die hungry which just doesn’t seem very fair at all. We’re all used to planning things in the long term and we all thought we had ages and ages to make things right and now we’re trapped in a room with really boring wallpaper that depresses me – and I don’t think we’ll ever make it out!”
“There there,” mumbled Germany. It seemed to help a little.
-
America sauntered towards England. “So,” he said, clearing his throat. “End of the world, huh?”
“I blame you,” snapped England.
“Hey, how was I supposed to know that Tony would do something like that? I’m really mad at him!”
“Yes, please be good enough to inform him that the annihilation of all native life is not the most effective way to greet a host planet.”
“I did! Or I will. But – I mean, forty eight hours... you could almost say there’s no point.” America met England’s gaze, smiling faintly.
England scowled back. But then relented. “All right – I suppose there is very little time to waste being resentful,” he conceded. “Although what else there is to do is beyond me. I wish we could get out of here- we should be informing our people of this.”
“I suppose it’s better off this way,” said America. “It’s not like there’s anything to be done.”
“Shouldn’t we be organising – I don’t know - nuclear shelters?” England tore a hand through his hair, helplessly.
“Wouldn’t make a difference,” America replied, promptly. “Apparently these missiles are big enough to make the whole planet explode.”
“Wonderful.”
There was a pause in the conversation, in which England wondered whether he was the only one who wanted to eviscerate someone.
“This is really surreal,” offered America.
“Surreal? Not at all!” said England, almost hysterically. “I for one am completely accustomed to being told that I’m going to be obliterated in two days’ time.” He then settled for sarcasm. “Thank you for that highly perceptive insight, America.”
America grinned. “You’re welcome.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“You’re running out of decent insults,” said America, continuing to smile, slyly. He enjoyed the sequence of banter; it felt companionable, almost sweet.
“Centuries worth of attempting to convey my disdain has taught me this: why bother with originality when ‘idiot’ is so fundamentally appropriate?”
Tony glanced towards the two. Well, _that_ was one thing that was not going to end well, especially not with Molests People in the picture. Tony actually regretted Chronically Repressed, to a certain extent. They had certainly gotten off on the wrong foot. Not that it was wholly Tony’s fault that he had evinced an immediate dislike to the nation – how was he to know that ‘fucking limey’ was not a standard British greeting? Stupid, faulty, ineffectual months of research.
Ahahaha, Tony, honey: Not that it was wholly Tony’s fault that he had evinced an immediate dislike to the nation – how was he to know that ‘fucking limey’ was not a standard British greeting? Stupid, faulty, ineffectual months of research. Good job. OTL
But really, I get the impression England's going to be ripped his hair out of by the roots by the end of this; unless he ends up ripping America's hair out by the roots while they're reconciling their differences? Are there private areas for nations to "make up" in in this scenario? ;D
OMG Ireland, you rock HARD :D And Belgium was really cute (lots of kudos to you for that Oscar Wilde mention!XD)
Ok, your England. Is. The best. I also like the minor USUK hints, I mean, my favourite ship is FrUK, but wth, England's repression is delicious to read in all directionsXD
Germany is still the mospt intelligent person in this storyXD I have a feeling everything will be over before he takes off those headphones, and thus will be the only one spared of confessing his love, or whateverXD
I am unbelievably amused by the fact that things are this chaotic often enough that Germany still hasn't bothered to take out his earplugs. Not to mention that he's given up on ever fixing the chaos; I guess this is how he stays the only sane nation, yeah?
(Greetings, all! Again, thanks for the comments - glad you're still enjoying this. Never fear, FrUK fans - I didn't lie! However, it might take a while before the FrUK actually begins. It's my favourite pairing, but I find it difficult to write FrUK unless I deal with the notorious Anglo-American relationship first - whatever the nature of that is. Blame England. He just generates UST with whoever he talks to. That's what repression does to you. :))
-
Tony began to congratulate himself on a plan well executed. Look at them! They were actually communicating! He felt an almost paternal wave of fondness for the little imbeciles. Look – there was Blind Fool, trying to talk with Short-Tempered; and across the room, seated at the desk, were Pianophile, Frying Pan Warrior and Egocentric, presumably talking things through. Look to the left and there were Scarf Sociopath, Married Married Married and Bra-Challenged: one happy family!
All right, so they were still deeply dysfunctional. Nevertheless – there was discernable improvement. Progress! Peaceful discussion! There was what bordered on emotional competency!
(Oops – Married Married Married just punched Molests Everyone in the face. Ah well, so much for peaceful discussion. Ouch. Could have been worse though; could have involved knives.)
Well, there went Molests Everyone – off to talk to The Invisible Man. Tony honed in on the conversations, one by one, trying to judge whether or not any improvement had actually been achieved.
-
Knowing that there was so little time left - knowing that he had so many years of unspoken emotion to answer for - Romano was determined to abandon all surliness and finally admit to what he had long forbidden himself to express. There was Spain, standing right in front of him; time to let down his guard and be truthful for once. Here goes. Romano started to speak:
“I can’t believe I’m stuck with you in my last 48 hours on Earth. Look at you – you look like a puppy that’s been kicked! And then left for dead in the middle of a snowstorm! Pathetic.”
... Well, said confession had gone not exactly as planned. Force of habit restraining him and all that. Still, all in all, it had been a valiant effort. Romano congratulated himself on having at least tried.
(Wait a minute, what had he actually said?)
(Oh. Oh, right.)
Well, it wasn’t as though it was difficult to deduce what he _actually_ meant, was it? Spain could figure it out. He was smart like that.
Spain’s kicked-and-abandoned-puppy look modulated into one of preternatural cheer. “You’re so cute when you come up with cutting character assassinations!”
There – contrary to popular belief, Spain wasn’t so clueless after all! He was actually much smarter than many people gave him credit for, particularly in terms of deciphering Romano’s meanings.
... Wait, character assassination? What? No! How could he manage to misconstrue such a simple declaration of fondness?
“Idiot!” cried Romano, with warmly expressed affection. Except, hold on, ‘idiot’ wasn’t so much of an affectionate term, come to think of it. Ah well. Spain would know what he meant.
“So, I don’t suppose you feel like making out with another guy right now?” suggested Hungary, casually. “I’m not asking for any reason.”
“Specifically? No, not particularly,” replied Austria, smiling.
“Pfft. Can’t blame me for trying. With only 48 hours left to live, I need homoeroticism, damn it.”
“With only 48 hours to live, I need a magical force-field to surround the Earth and save us from impending doom. But I accept that some things are major priorities.”
“Touché.” They exchanged an amused glance.
At which point, France swooped down, kissing first Austria, then Hungary briefly on the lips.
“What the hell?” asked Prussia, who had slid over the conference desk to join them. France responded by kissing him too, before making a hasty retreat. Prussia blinked, momentarily stunned. “And again I say, this time a little louder and more confused: what. The hell.”
Hungary, who had turned a delicate shade of pink, was too busy cackling gleefully to notice answer.
“All in all,” said Austria, addressing the sky with the utmost respect (the ceiling rather got in the way), “I would have much preferred a magical force-field.”
-
Ukraine sat, pale, feeling somewhat nauseous. She hoped it was not too noticeable. She hoped her brother – who was staring almost contentedly in the direction of the wallpaper – did not feel as panicked as she did.
“I’m scared,” she announced, quietly. “Everyone else seems to have taken this in their stride. This is not something you can just take in your stride!”
“Well,” said Russia, calmly, “we have had practice at this.”
“Not THIS.”
“Civilisation as we know it has been on the brink of destruction more frequently than any of us would care to count,” said Russia, good-humouredly. “It makes a pleasant change for it not to be self-inflicted, da?”
“How can you be so placid?” Ukraine whispered, reproachfully.
“Because I have been through far worse,” he shrugged, casually. “Now? At least there is certainty.”
“Brother?” came a voice from – rather ominously - behind him. “Now that it is the end of the world, we have less than 48 hours in which to get married...”
Luckily for Russia, that particular suggestion was averted – not necessarily in the most welcome fashion, but what followed was nonetheless fortuitous. Namely, he found himself being abruptly kissed by France. Whereupon he was released – Ukraine was given similar treatment. Russia wondered idly if he ought to intervene when France turned towards Belarus.
Well, in all probability, the worst that could happen was a knife wound.
He rather hoped the blood would not stain the wallpaper. The cleaning staff had been rather annoyed the last time that had happened.
- “France?” Canada knelt beside France, who was lying injured on the floor.
France rolled onto his side, lazily propping up his head in one hand. “Oh, it’s nothing. ‘Tis but a flesh wound. Actually, ‘tis but a punch to the face. I decided to set myself a challenge, you see: kiss everyone in the room before we are consigned to oblivion.”
After knowing France for centuries, Canada recognised that there was little purpose in asking ‘why’. The answer would inevitably be some variation on ‘why not?’ Generally, France’s behaviour was not determined by whether or not something was a good idea, but simply whether or not there was anything to stop him. “Oh,” decided Canada. “So your challenge didn’t go down so well with Belarus, then?”
“Not in the slightest. How did you guess?” deadpanned France.
“Don’t be sarcastic,” said Canada, vaguely.
“I was being ironic – surely you cannot deny me the right to be vaguely ironic on the eve of destruction?” said France, teasingly.
“What did you expect to happen, anyway?”
“I expected her to punch me in the face, of course. But I also expected to be faster at ducking out of the way.”
“Ah.”
“Yes, well.”
After knowing France for centuries, Canada really ought to have remembered that, however futile, it was simply too difficult to withstand asking ‘why’. Hence: “... Why?”
France smiled. “I wanted to say farewell. As Belgium said, it is our last opportunity. Something of a shock, but there you go. Look at everyone.” He waved a languid hand in the general direction of the other nations. “They’ve already split off into little groups to say what needs to be said. Personally, I dislike this factionalism.”
Canada had to admit, there was logic to that, albeit skewed logic. Utterly characteristic of France, of course.
“However,” added France, “upon consideration, the continuation of my challenge seems... unwise.” He massaged his nose, wincing.
“Spoken to England yet?” asked Canada, attempting a tone that was light and casual. Probably failing. But someone had to say it.
“Now why would I want to speak to him in particular?” France’s eyes, however, twinkled. Canada rolled his own eyes, exasperatedly. Irony again.
Tony began to realise that it was a little too early to be murmuring ‘exactly as planned’ in triumph, whilst accompanied by ominous Latin chanting. Things were not operating as smoothly as they could, exactly.
(Did his Licence to Break the Fourth Wall cover gratuitous referencing? He hoped so. Wouldn’t do to get that confiscated – not in times like these.)
The trouble was that they were just too damned adaptable. Having lived through the threat of destruction, disintegration, revolution, partition, cold wars, incredibly heated wars – it took a lot to frighten them. Apparently it took even more than the prospect of total obliteration.
Also, it did very little to loosen their tongues, much less shake the foundations of their meticulously structured denial. Only Blind Idiot had managed to choke out the word ‘love’ and, even then, all Short Tempered seemed to be capable of was gazing dumbfounded into his eyes. No, wait, not even his eyes. Too awkward for even that. Short Tempered was staring at the wallpaper.
Truly, Molests Everyone had had the right idea. Direct and to the point. Pity he ended up being the first minor casualty of the day.
Meanwhile, Heroic Host was busy chasing after a pipe dream, like an adorable yet misguided puppy chasing towards a speeding bulldozer.
Oh, and there were Slightly Effeminate and Ridiculously Effeminate! Well, they seemed – great Yrrighnt, did no-one take impending doom seriously any more? – cheerful. What, pray tell, did it take to frighten Ridiculously Effeminate? Was Ridiculously Effeminate even capable of fear? Or had he devised some kind of ingenious exit strategy, involving balloons and ponies? That did not even bear thinking about.
Inadvertent Tomboy and Gun-Toting Neutral had joined Egocentric et al. Mangled Speech and Santa Claus seemed to be in the midst of intent conversation. Huh. Mangled Speech was attempting conversation? Interesting. Well, at least some effort was being made from that corner. Tony was hardly expecting miracles, though – not when both were so clearly (and nonsensically) terrified of each other.
There went Diminutive, off to greet Chronically Repressed. Tony had not even realised that Diminutive was here. He almost pitied Repressed.
Tony glanced at I’m Fine With Being a Cultural Stereotype. She _glared_ at him.
“Really?” Lithuania tried not to wince. Or indicate any other sign of despair. If he did, he might be forced to explain to Poland why balloons could not levitate them high enough to escape the missile blast. And that would be unfair, because to deprive someone of the scant hope that they had in this situation would be cruel.
Plus, he probably wouldn’t believe him.
“It doesn’t matter if our land moves, right? I mean, we’re, like, still countries. We still exist. Yeah? So, I’m thinking we get all of our best divers to swim under the sea and link all the countries together underneath with chains. You with me so far? So all the land is, like, chained together. OK. Then we get some rocket launcher type-things and fix them to the land. Then, boom! We’re airborne! So we fly to the moon and sorta arrange the land back where it used to be, only, like, on the moon! So it doesn’t matter if the Earth gets destroyed, ‘cause nobody will be on it!”
Poland grinned, triumphantly. Looked at Lithuania. Seemed to be expecting enthusiasm, or at least approval. For a second, Lithuania felt a strange compulsion to agree with happy alacrity, simply because – because Poland somehow had that effect on people. On – well, on him.
However, there was another factor to contend with: his own sanity. “Um,” said Lithuania, assertively. “Poland. There are a few problems with that.”
“Oh, you’re wondering where we get water from, huh? Easy! When the Earth goes kaboom, all the water will, like, explode everywhere. So some of it will splash onto the moon. Till then, we can take up as much bottled water as we can. It’ll be fine!”
“Actually, that’s not the problem I was thinking of.” The problem is, thought Lithuania, that there is nothing even remotely feasible about that plan. Or is that too general for just one problem? But, to be honest, he did not even want to voice his criticisms. Mostly because, as always, he found himself incapable of formulating a logical argument, faced with such illogic and, well, with Poland.
“Oh, there’s the fact that we’re still kinda locked in this room, right? And that for some reason nobody’s phone seems to be working? Well, that’s easy. All we have to do is cut a hole in the floor and escape!”
Lithuania looked at Poland’s expression. It was... so unbelievably animated that it defied belief.
“Look, you don’t think that after all the surviving I’ve done that I’m really going to die?” asked Poland, in genuine disbelief. “I’m, like, invincible.”
Lithuania could not think of a response to that. It was too – too typical. And, in an odd way, almost a relief. Not even ‘you’re insane’ worked as a response because, damn it, he was probably right. Poland was invincible. How could anything ever get the better of him? And yet – and yet it was utterly hopeless. How typical of Poland to refuse to recognise a lost cause! Lithuania knew that nothing could induce him to disillusion him. Not that there was a force on Earth that had the power to disillusion Poland, who happened to be extremely fond of his illusions.
So really, there was very little he could think of to say.
Instead, seized by some insane impulse, he grabbed Poland by the shoulders, in an inexpert embrace. “You – do know I love you, right?” he breathed. Their faces were very near. It was fairly awkward. He wondered if he, Lithuania, was slightly mad. Overall, it would make sense.
Poland blinked. “Tchyeah. I knew that. I love you too. I mean, duh! But at the moment, we’re talking about escape tactics.”
Then, flying in the face of all logic and caution, Lithuania pulled him forward, closing the space between them. And there was no more talk of escape tactics.
“Do they really have to do that in front of everyone?” hissed Switzerland, indicating Poland and Lithuania.
“Oh, leave them be,” said Hungary. Gleefully. Austria smiled, exasperatedly. “They’re just kissing! It’s sweet!”
Switzerland briefly considered putting a hand over Liechtenstein’s eyes. But no. To business. “Au-Austria,” he said, stiffly. “If I could have a word with you.”
Austria did not budge. “What is it, Switzerland?”
Switzerland paused. He had been hoping to be spared making this admission in front of Prussia and Hungary. Nonetheless. With great dignity and restraint, he said: “I - am willing to admit that I was once your friend.”
“... What?”
“Currently, I despise you,” said Switzerland, lest Austria be mistaken with regards to where he stood. “However. Seeing as we are so close to death, it seems only right to set the record straight. So – I was, I feel I must admit, despite what I have maintained previously, once your friend.”
Austria nodded, perplexed. “But... I know you were,” he pointed out. “Mostly because I was there at the time.”
“Yes. Well.” With the air of one whose massive gesture of conciliation had been quashed, Switzerland fell silent.
“... Thank you,” said Austria, unsure as to whether this was the correct response.
Luckily, it seemed to be. “You’re welcome,” muttered Switzerland. “Right. Done that. Yes. Um.”
Meanwhile, Hungary was warmly saying goodbye to Liechtenstein. “This doesn’t seem fair at all,” she said. “Not when you escaped this sort of thing so recently.”
“It’s not nice,” agreed Liechtenstein, sadly. “I’ll miss you.”
“Who says we won’t all be together afterwards?” asked Hungary. With that, the two embraced. “You know what I hate?” she said, voice muffled.
“What?”
She released Liechtenstein and laughed, briefly. “I hate secrets,” she said. “I hate the idea that there’s anything I know that nobody else knows. Particularly now.”
“Well – there’s time,” said Liechtenstein.
“Yeah. I suppose so,” said Hungary, thoughtfully. “I’m going to be really angry if we aren’t all together after we die,” she added, stubbornly.
“Tch. Yeah, yeah, whatever!” said Prussia, derisively, causing the two to jump. “Spare us the sobs and stuff, Hungary. It’s pathetic! Hey. Liechtenstein. Smile, OK? This whole death thing? It’s just stupid.”
Hungary darted an angry glance at him, but Liechtenstein giggled, weakly. “OK,” she said. “But you have to smile too.”
Prussia obliged, with a broad, sincere grin. “See? It’s stupid. Forget about the whole thing.”
“That’s completely illogical,” said Hungary, irritated.
“I know, right?” he laughed. “So what! Logic is stupid too!”
Hungary tried to narrow her eyes disdainfully at him, but could not help smiling at the same time, which rather ruined the effect.
(Soapbox Wonder = Belgium, Pauses Between Each Word = Greece. By the way, thank you everyone for your wonderful comments! I'm sorry I haven't been replying to them directly - life at school has been hectic and I've barely had time to write this. That said, have some more fic! And there's England in it, too.)
England and America had really been arguing for far too long. Inevitably, the quality of the dispute had deteriorated until they began recycling old, tedious grievances that were still somehow reassuring to list.
“Anyway, I’m not taking lectures from someone who can’t even cook without carbonising the food!” yelled America, thoroughly enjoying the pettiness. He and England had gravitated to a corner of the room that was half tucked away, half concealed from the rest of the nations.
(Unless they happened to be positioned on the floor – but, well, more of that later.)
“This is stupid,” said England, but he smiled.
America laughed, delightedly. “Yep. It’s pretty dumb.”
There was a pause.
“So let’s stop being dumb,” said America, firmly. As with everything else that was said between the two, his meaning was ambiguous, but neither were in any doubt of what he was trying to half-say. All in all, double-speak could have been the universal language for the world’s nations.
England felt a sensation similar to that of being kicked in the stomach.
“England,” said America, “I’m being serious.” Again – totally unambiguous in its ambiguity.
“No you’re not,” said England. Decisively.
“I totally am!” said America, with equal decision, laughing.
“In which case, don’t be,” pleaded England.
“What?” America looked completely taken aback. “Look, we’ve been doing this – whatever we’re doing – for ages. And it’s dumb. So let’s stop and actually accept – things as they are.” He took a step close, eyes wide and imploring. But still so confident and unfazed... and innocent. He had managed to last for centuries without ever losing that bright-eyed look.
Yet still, they could only bring themselves to allude to it! England realised that it was time to be honest – completely so. Time to pretend that America had been explicit rather than implicit about the situation, and respond accordingly.
“The truth is, America – we’re a bad influence on each other,” began England. This was... painful. “If I was still a Great Power – still an Empire – it might have been, well, possible. As it is, you are far too much the way I used to be, only perhaps more so. If we were on equal footing, the situation would be different. As it is now... suffice to say that there was a time where I was besotted. I was your willing slave. I would have done anything for you – that, I suppose, is the trouble at the moment; I would still be persuaded to do anything you asked. Alongside you, I am nothing but the shadow of a once-mighty empire. I could not bear to play that part for long. If I can’t be mighty, I have to be successful elsewhere. Anyway, I’m too old to be playing at imperialism.”
“I’m not – imperialism? What the hell?” Stung, America recoiled.
“Not my kind of imperialism,” said England. “A new kind, all your own.” He tried not to allow too much bitterness to creep into his words, but it was difficult.
“I’m not an empire! I’m a democracy, for fuck’s sake! THE democracy!”
He was not making this easy. Which was, of course, to be expected but - nonetheless. England would have liked it to have been easy.
“You are the dominant world power. And you are perfectly capable of a certain kind of tyranny. But this is no time to lecture – I’m sorry. I’m not – I’m not indifferent, America.” It was not so much a confession of love as it was a declaration of surface-level compatibility. As for America – well, it teetered on the edge of confession, didn’t it? As always.
By the way, parts 6c and 6d have been minimised, so you'll have to expand them. Just figured I'd say this because they're easy to miss and things will make slightly less sense if you do miss them! :)
(Slightly superfluous comment, I know, but I'm always making that mistake with fills, so yeah...)
OP hasn't been around lately, but hoshit, anon, I love this! Especially the last chapter. Sweet Jesus, I asked for FrUK and am almot fapping at the USUK I know FrUK is coming, but I ship this too ^^U
I love all the little bits about the nations, and that you're taking the time to develop each relationship. I totally loved Poland's part like omgawd. And your Hungayyr is seriously hardcore 8)
Now, this...USUK:
“The truth is, America – we’re a bad influence on each other,” began England. This was... painful. “If I was still a Great Power – still an Empire – it might have been, well, possible. As it is, you are far too much the way I used to be, only perhaps more so. If we were on equal footing, the situation would be different. As it is now... suffice to say that there was a time where I was besotted. I was your willing slave. I would have done anything for you – that, I suppose, is the trouble at the moment; I would still be persuaded to do anything you asked. Alongside you, I am nothing but the shadow of a once-mighty empire. I could not bear to play that part for long. If I can’t be mighty, I have to be successful elsewhere. Anyway, I’m too old to be playing at imperialism.”
So very much my headcanon, author anon. It's wonderful. I lovelovelove you for taking the time to give them this moment, even in a fic with other pairings. Like, really, you're gonna write my three favourite pairings in this fic! I've never seen it before! USUK, FrUK and AmeRus. I ♥ you anon (and I love that it was England the one to end their ambiguous game, since he's the eldest and probably conscious that he has limited time and has to address his issues, his bucketload of issues, with a certain someone elseXD)
“Not my kind of imperialism,” said England. “A new kind, all your own.” He tried not to allow too much bitterness to creep into his words, but it was difficult.
Totally my headcanon, again. I wonder why USUK fics don't address this issue more often. Do they really think England is bitter when he looks at America just because he lost him? I've always thought that he more than anything is bitter about losing his empire and power, to his child, to bring the humiliation even more home. I think it's awesome that he confronted his feelings about it, and also forced America to confront that he's also an empire -a new kind, the economic one.
“You are the dominant world power. And you are perfectly capable of a certain kind of tyranny. But this is no time to lecture – I’m sorry. I’m not – I’m not indifferent, America.” It was not so much a confession of love as it was a declaration of surface-level compatibility. As for America – well, it teetered on the edge of confession, didn’t it? As always.
(Yay, you liked it! :) And also yay for headcanon correllation. The whole USUK relationship is... argh, complicated is the best summary! And inextricably linked with France and Russia. Chapter 6 is a ridiculously long chapter, AND IT'S ALL THEIR FAULT. Also Austria and Hungary's fault (I love writing Hungary. Can you tell? :)). Oh, by the way, have a link to the poem Ireland keeps referencing: http://www.potw.org/archive/potw351.html This section picks up directly from the last Ireland and Belgium scene, by the way.)
--
“What?” asked Belgium.
“It’s from a poem,” explained Ireland. “’The Second Coming’, by Yeats. It’s a visionary sort of thing – it describes some kind of catastrophe that the poet foresaw, where the world begins to descend into chaos. ‘Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold’. It’s based around the Christian notion of the second coming of Christ, except it’s more about – well, the end of the world as we know it. Written in 1919, so you can hardly blame him for thinking world destruction was at hand!”
Belgium nodded, confusedly.
“Wars, revolutions, fighting for independence and all that,” explained Ireland. “You know, I guess Yeats is sort of vindicated by what’s happening now. Who knows – maybe he predicted this!”
“You,” said Belgium, “have a really morbid sense of humour.”
“Yes, yes I do.” They laughed together.
“So,” said Belgium. “Yeats?”
“Yeah. I’ve always liked the way that poem goes from miniscule to colossal. It begins with the falcon, spinning away out of control, and then ends in worldwide devastation. Like one action that goes hideously wrong. It’s as though the whole thing gains momentum – until everything collapses.” Ireland accompanied this with expansive hand gestures, presumably the better to illustrate concepts such as ‘devastation’ and ‘hideously wrong’.
“Like an alien pressing a tiny button to destroy the Earth,” said Belgium, wryly.
“Oh yeah. Ugh. Speaking of that alien thing – it’s staring at me.” Ireland shuddered.
“Ignore him,” said Belgium, dismissively.
“Can’t I go bash its head against the wall? Just a little bit? Please?”
“Ireland,” said Belgium, reproachfully.
“Not even enough to do any real damage!” Ireland assured her. “Just enough to repay it for effectively murdering us all!”
“Ireland!” This time, Belgium’s reproach was more sharply expressed.
“You’re just no fun,” said Ireland, pouting.
“Tell me the rest of the poem,” said Belgium, unexpectedly. She keeps doing that, thought Ireland. Saying unexpected things, that is.
“Huh? You want me to read it out to you?”
“Yes please.”
“All right... but – well, poetry read aloud never sounds as good as when you read it. I'm serious! It never matches up to the voice in your head. Everyone reads a poem differently – it seems to clash really awfully when someone adds a different intonation to a word, or – well, you get the picture.”
Belgium listened, nodding. “Ireland?” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Just read me the poem already.”
“Tch. If that’s what you really want... ‘Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear...”
(Whoops, posted this in the wrong place again. Sorry! *Flails uselessly*.)
America refused to meet England’s eyes. “What does it matter now?” he asked, barely masking his frustration. “It’s not like a long-term thing is really an option at the moment! I lo – I just want us to be together now. Just for the time we’ve got left, for God’s sake.”
England shook his head, unsure of how to phrase his refusal. Delicately, he supposed. “I’m – sorry, America. I need someone who is the same as me. I need an equal, not a superior or inferior. We – we grew out of each other long ago, I think.”
“Like hell we did!” America still looked resolutely away.
“I don’t think we’ll ever stop loving each other – it’s just that the strength of it has dwindled.”
America whipped around, angrily. “I never said – love!” Unconvincingly.
Neither of us had to say it; it was always obvious, thought England. Nevertheless, he said, calmly: “All right, then. My mistake.”
America appeared to crumple, visibly. “I didn’t – not mean lo – ah, forget it!” He made a move as if to walk away.
England grabbed his hand, to prevent him. “We loved each other at different times, mostly,” he said, reaching to the heart of the matter. As it were. “And whenever our loves coincided, it was the wrong time anyhow.”
“I don’t love you!”
“I believe you.”
“No you don’t.”
“No, I don’t,” admitted England. America still had not let go of his hand.
“Hey – England!” The third voice came from somewhere at the other end of the room. Seconds later, they were joined by a third – well, for want of a better word – England hesitated to use the term on a matter of principle – nation.
“Sealand? Go away,” said England, firmly.
“Jerk,” said Sealand, refusing to leave; America complied instead, wrenching his hand back and walking away, heading for – well, for the other end of the room. Admittedly, in their current situation, it was difficult to make an exit with much impact or significance (although somehow America still managed). England resisted the urge to smash someone’s head against the wall – his own, perhaps.
“What’s going on?” asked Sealand, insistently. “No-one will tell me why everyone’s gone crazy!” England took the opportunity to reflect that none of his ex-charges seemed to have been incapable of learning to read the atmosphere. He refused to accept responsibility for this and considered blaming France instead. Why France could be blamed in Sealand’s case was something of a mystery, but England was certain that he could think of some excuse or other if given sufficient time.
“We’re all going to die very soon,” said England, bluntly.
“Very funny. Seriously!”
“I’m being serious, Sealand.”
“Yeah, right!”
“Suit yourself. Sealand? Listen to me; this is important,” England watched America stalk away to the furthest end of the room. “Never grow up. Just don’t do it.” Sealand looked perplexed; England ploughed on regardless. “For one thing, the prospect of you growing up occasionally haunts my nightmares. More importantly – it simply is not worth it. Trust me.” England told himself he was being flippant, but only half believed it.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say! I’m going to be the greatest nation in the world one day!”
“We have less than two days to live, Sealand. Even for the most enterprising of nations, that’s a tad ambitious.”
“Don’t believe you. Hey – ha! You called me a nation!”
LOL! Okay, okay, I know I don't know all of them, but was that a Dragonriders of Pern reference?? And Doctor Who, of course. And Hitchhikers Guide! XDDDD I'm afraid mutant humans and near rape are the two I am totally unknowing to.
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DIY Doomsday (3/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-20 04:12 pm (UTC)(link)------------------------------------------------------------------
Once the shock wore off, the appropriate action seemed obvious.
“Well,” said Ireland. “The world’s going to end? I say we hit the pub!” The resultant yells of assent were enough to make even Germany (artificially deafened as he was) jump. “Well, that looks pretty unanimous,” she smiled.
“Drinks are on America, seeing as he’s the one whose alien decided to bring us our own personal apocalypse!” announced England. There was a considerable rush towards the doors.
“Wait!” yelled a voice from the back of the room, loudly enough to halt most of the nations in their tracks.
“... Belgium?”
Indeed it was Belgium who had spoken. “Think about this!” she pleaded. “We have 48 hours in which to live! Do you really want to spend the majority of them drunk?”
“If we keep drinking continuously, we might not even have to face the hangovers,” pointed out England, somewhat grimly. “It’s the best possible time to get drunk, if anything.”
“Don’t you want to make the most of the time we have left?” asked Belgium. “To say goodbye to each other... to our people...? And you, Ireland - and England! Alcohol – is that really your answer? At a time like this, are you going to behave like nothing better than cultural stereotypes? Where’s your pride? If there’s anything you never said to anyone here that you ought to have done – if anything remains undone, if apologies or thanks remain unspoken... don’t you realise that this is our last chance?”
There was a thoughtful silence, in which the nations looked abashed.
“Meh,” decided Ireland, eventually. “I’m fine with being a cultural stereotype at the moment. I mean, in this situation, it’s not so much the fact that we’ve got to make the most of the time we’ve got left so much as nothing matters anymore, so we may as well just say ‘screw it, I’ll do what I like’.”
The silence was subsequently filled by cheers; once more, the nations stampeded door-ward.
Tony felt the situation slipping out of his slightly luminous hands. Luckily, he had taken the precaution of sealing the door with a device native to his homeland. After all, as amusing as it would be, there was no need to cause mass chaos and panic across the human population of the Earth – the nations had to be kept inside. Luckily, superior technology had its uses. Breaking out of the room would be virtually impossible as, judging by the indignant yells, his dim-witted friends seemed to be in the process of discovering.
The resultant dismay was palpable. And loud. Very loud. Tony sat, passively, listening to the various indignant vociferations – most of them variations to the tune of I-swear-I’ll-smash-that-door-down, can’t-believe-I’m-stuck-with-these-idiots and how-will-I-survive-without-[insert appropriate cultural food here]-for-48-whole-hours.
Eventually, they calmed down; even the most perverse of toddlers need a small respite from their constant temper tantrums, after all.
And, oddity of all oddities, Tony’s plan appeared to be working.
They seemed thoughtful, at least. Some of them even struck up conversation with each other. This could prove to be quite an interesting psychological experiment.
Tony observed that Pauses Between Each Word and Polite to a Fault already seemed to be in deep discussion. But then, they had always been more placid than the others – not that this, of course, was a particularly difficult quality to achieve. Soapbox Wonder had, oddly, singled out I’m Fine with Being a Cultural Stereotype. And, of course, there was Pasta Freak, chattering away in Potato Man’s ear. It was all so utterly predictable and idiotic that Tony felt practically lobotomised by association.
Oh – and there was Heroic Host America, already seeking out Chronically Repressed.
Oops!
(Anonymous) 2010-09-20 04:14 pm (UTC)(link)Re: DIY Doomsday (3/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-20 04:25 pm (UTC)(link)BTW, who's Soapbox Wonder? I figured out the rest, but that one evades me...
Op
(Anonymous) 2010-09-20 11:53 pm (UTC)(link)England was also amusingly alcohol-oriented. They really are behaving like kids, and it's awesomeXD. Food fixation is really high among the nations, isn't it? Good job, authoranon ;)
I love Tony's nicknames for each of them. Especially the fact that only America seems to have a half-respectable and positive oneXD
DIY Doomsday (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-21 05:03 pm (UTC)(link)-
“I wonder what happens when a country dies,” murmured Greece. “What it will feel like, I mean. What will actually happen.”
“After death?” Japan asked. “It would be nice if there was such thing as reincarnation,” he said, almost at random. “It is always nice to be given a second chance.”
“I could be reborn as a cat,” smiled Greece.
“Greece-san is not scared, then?”
Silence.
“What is there to be scared about?” Greece eventually asked.
Japan paused. Thought. Decided to paraphrase: “A lot.”
“Every human goes through this.” Another pause. “I suppose it’s only fair.”
-
“I always knew there was something – something malevolent about that ridiculous alien!” Ireland fumed at the nearest person – Belgium. Belgium looked a little startled.
“So, earlier I said something about never apologising or saying thank you and last chances and things,” said Belgium to Ireland, in what Ireland though was a rather non-sequiteur fashion.
“Yes. Yes you did.” Ireland was, to put it mildly, extremely frustrated. She felt like punching something, because everyone was so helpless and sometimes a futile gesture could be cathartic. Maybe she’d go and punch her brother, later.
“Well, it occurred to me that I never thanked you for – this is really embarrassing – but for World War One.”
Well. Ireland had not been expecting that. Particularly from someone who had lectured her several minutes ago.
Belgium rushed to explain, flustered. “I mean, you didn’t want to be part of the war at all. It wasn’t your fight – you were trying to get away from English rule and the last thing you needed was to be dragged along to his conflict. But when Germany and Prussia invaded, you came to help along with the others.”
Ireland shrugged. “Solidarity thing,” she said. “You were Catholic. Germany was mostly Protestant, and he was treating you as little better than a highway to France. No competition. Not even to annoy my brother.” Perhaps she would punch the alien, too. Actually, there was a point – why was nobody hanging, drawing and quartering that bloody alien?
“All the same, I never thanked you in particular,” Belgium persisted. “I always meant to, but after a few years of German control and not being able to get in touch, it seemed too late. Then, before I knew it, decades had gone by.”
“You were very brave, back then,” said Ireland, lightly. “We were fighting for the same thing. Our independence. Our integrity. Stuff. I think I’m going to punch the wall.”
“Yeah,” said Belgium, vaguely. “England kept calling me ‘poor little Belgium’. That was actually sort of condescending.”
“Condescending? My brother? Ha, perish the thought! My sister, North, always got on with him better, of course. There’s a thought – North, Wales and Scotland don’t know about any of this. They’re at home. I suppose it’s just as well. Anyway. Belgium. Don’t mention it.” Ireland looked away, to mask the traces of how pleased she was with an expertly crafted casual air. She focused on the hideous wallpaper instead. “God,” she muttered. “Now I know how Oscar felt. ‘Either that wallpaper goes, or I do’; tell you what, I guess it’s a compromise, because we’ll all be incinerated at the same time, wallpaper and all. Kind of funny!”
“Incineration. Yes... funny,” said Belgium, uncomfortably. She supposed they all had different ways of handling crises.
“’Turning and turning in the widening gyre/ The falcon cannot hear the falconer’,” murmured Ireland, suddenly serious.
“What?” asked Belgium.
Re: DIY Doomsday (4b/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-21 05:08 pm (UTC)(link)-
“Germany! I don’t want to die. None of us want to die, I’m fairly sure, and it’s all so strange because one moment things were normal and the only person who was possibly going to die was France because England was strangling him but he was probably going to let him go in the end anyway and then suddenly we didn’t have close to forever to live but forty eight hours! And I’d really like some pasta before the Earth explodes but the doors are locked and there’s no way of getting to a kitchen even though I have some pasta in my pockets but there’s no boiling water in here so there’s no point...”
Germany watched Veneziano’s mouth move, and was vaguely aware that he was speaking words. He looked extremely unhappy, which was bad. Germany patted him absentmindedly on the shoulder. He was still wearing the ear plugs, though, and was loath to remove them when everyone else seemed to be so panicked – although, for the most part, they seemed to be calming down, which was a little worrying in of itself, but to question it seemed tantamount to looking a gift horse in the mouth. Probably there was a world pasta shortage, he decided. Something minor, at any rate.
“So I think we’re all going to die hungry which just doesn’t seem very fair at all. We’re all used to planning things in the long term and we all thought we had ages and ages to make things right and now we’re trapped in a room with really boring wallpaper that depresses me – and I don’t think we’ll ever make it out!”
“There there,” mumbled Germany. It seemed to help a little.
-
America sauntered towards England. “So,” he said, clearing his throat. “End of the world, huh?”
“I blame you,” snapped England.
“Hey, how was I supposed to know that Tony would do something like that? I’m really mad at him!”
“Yes, please be good enough to inform him that the annihilation of all native life is not the most effective way to greet a host planet.”
“I did! Or I will. But – I mean, forty eight hours... you could almost say there’s no point.” America met England’s gaze, smiling faintly.
England scowled back. But then relented. “All right – I suppose there is very little time to waste being resentful,” he conceded. “Although what else there is to do is beyond me. I wish we could get out of here- we should be informing our people of this.”
“I suppose it’s better off this way,” said America. “It’s not like there’s anything to be done.”
“Shouldn’t we be organising – I don’t know - nuclear shelters?” England tore a hand through his hair, helplessly.
“Wouldn’t make a difference,” America replied, promptly. “Apparently these missiles are big enough to make the whole planet explode.”
“Wonderful.”
There was a pause in the conversation, in which England wondered whether he was the only one who wanted to eviscerate someone.
“This is really surreal,” offered America.
“Surreal? Not at all!” said England, almost hysterically. “I for one am completely accustomed to being told that I’m going to be obliterated in two days’ time.” He then settled for sarcasm. “Thank you for that highly perceptive insight, America.”
America grinned. “You’re welcome.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“You’re running out of decent insults,” said America, continuing to smile, slyly. He enjoyed the sequence of banter; it felt companionable, almost sweet.
“Centuries worth of attempting to convey my disdain has taught me this: why bother with originality when ‘idiot’ is so fundamentally appropriate?”
Tony glanced towards the two. Well, _that_ was one thing that was not going to end well, especially not with Molests People in the picture. Tony actually regretted Chronically Repressed, to a certain extent. They had certainly gotten off on the wrong foot. Not that it was wholly Tony’s fault that he had evinced an immediate dislike to the nation – how was he to know that ‘fucking limey’ was not a standard British greeting? Stupid, faulty, ineffectual months of research.
Re: DIY Doomsday (4b/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-21 06:56 pm (UTC)(link)But really, I get the impression England's going to be ripped his hair out of by the roots by the end of this; unless he ends up ripping America's hair out by the roots while they're reconciling their differences? Are there private areas for nations to "make up" in in this scenario? ;D
Re: DIY Doomsday (4b/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-21 08:05 pm (UTC)(link)Go, authoranon, go!
Re: DIY Doomsday (4b/?)
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-21 21:19 (UTC) - ExpandOp
(Anonymous) 2010-09-21 10:33 pm (UTC)(link)And Belgium was really cute (lots of kudos to you for that Oscar Wilde mention!XD)
Ok, your England. Is. The best. I also like the minor USUK hints, I mean, my favourite ship is FrUK, but wth, England's repression is delicious to read in all directionsXD
Germany is still the mospt intelligent person in this storyXD
I have a feeling everything will be over before he takes off those headphones, and thus will be the only one spared of confessing his love, or whateverXD
Re: DIY Doomsday (4b/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-21 11:12 pm (UTC)(link)the onlysanenation, yeah?Re: DIY Doomsday (5/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-23 09:57 pm (UTC)(link)-
Tony began to congratulate himself on a plan well executed. Look at them! They were actually communicating! He felt an almost paternal wave of fondness for the little imbeciles. Look – there was Blind Fool, trying to talk with Short-Tempered; and across the room, seated at the desk, were Pianophile, Frying Pan Warrior and Egocentric, presumably talking things through. Look to the left and there were Scarf Sociopath, Married Married Married and Bra-Challenged: one happy family!
All right, so they were still deeply dysfunctional. Nevertheless – there was discernable improvement. Progress! Peaceful discussion! There was what bordered on emotional competency!
(Oops – Married Married Married just punched Molests Everyone in the face. Ah well, so much for peaceful discussion. Ouch. Could have been worse though; could have involved knives.)
Well, there went Molests Everyone – off to talk to The Invisible Man. Tony honed in on the conversations, one by one, trying to judge whether or not any improvement had actually been achieved.
-
Knowing that there was so little time left - knowing that he had so many years of unspoken emotion to answer for - Romano was determined to abandon all surliness and finally admit to what he had long forbidden himself to express. There was Spain, standing right in front of him; time to let down his guard and be truthful for once. Here goes. Romano started to speak:
“I can’t believe I’m stuck with you in my last 48 hours on Earth. Look at you – you look like a puppy that’s been kicked! And then left for dead in the middle of a snowstorm! Pathetic.”
... Well, said confession had gone not exactly as planned. Force of habit restraining him and all that. Still, all in all, it had been a valiant effort. Romano congratulated himself on having at least tried.
(Wait a minute, what had he actually said?)
(Oh. Oh, right.)
Well, it wasn’t as though it was difficult to deduce what he _actually_ meant, was it? Spain could figure it out. He was smart like that.
Spain’s kicked-and-abandoned-puppy look modulated into one of preternatural cheer. “You’re so cute when you come up with cutting character assassinations!”
There – contrary to popular belief, Spain wasn’t so clueless after all! He was actually much smarter than many people gave him credit for, particularly in terms of deciphering Romano’s meanings.
... Wait, character assassination? What? No! How could he manage to misconstrue such a simple declaration of fondness?
“Idiot!” cried Romano, with warmly expressed affection. Except, hold on, ‘idiot’ wasn’t so much of an affectionate term, come to think of it. Ah well. Spain would know what he meant.
“Love you too, Romano!”
See? Not clueless at all.
Re: DIY Doomsday (5b/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-23 09:59 pm (UTC)(link)“Specifically? No, not particularly,” replied Austria, smiling.
“Pfft. Can’t blame me for trying. With only 48 hours left to live, I need homoeroticism, damn it.”
“With only 48 hours to live, I need a magical force-field to surround the Earth and save us from impending doom. But I accept that some things are major priorities.”
“Touché.” They exchanged an amused glance.
At which point, France swooped down, kissing first Austria, then Hungary briefly on the lips.
“What the hell?” asked Prussia, who had slid over the conference desk to join them. France responded by kissing him too, before making a hasty retreat. Prussia blinked, momentarily stunned. “And again I say, this time a little louder and more confused: what. The hell.”
Hungary, who had turned a delicate shade of pink, was too busy cackling gleefully to notice answer.
“All in all,” said Austria, addressing the sky with the utmost respect (the ceiling rather got in the way), “I would have much preferred a magical force-field.”
-
Ukraine sat, pale, feeling somewhat nauseous. She hoped it was not too noticeable. She hoped her brother – who was staring almost contentedly in the direction of the wallpaper – did not feel as panicked as she did.
“I’m scared,” she announced, quietly. “Everyone else seems to have taken this in their stride. This is not something you can just take in your stride!”
“Well,” said Russia, calmly, “we have had practice at this.”
“Not THIS.”
“Civilisation as we know it has been on the brink of destruction more frequently than any of us would care to count,” said Russia, good-humouredly. “It makes a pleasant change for it not to be self-inflicted, da?”
“How can you be so placid?” Ukraine whispered, reproachfully.
“Because I have been through far worse,” he shrugged, casually. “Now? At least there is certainty.”
“Brother?” came a voice from – rather ominously - behind him. “Now that it is the end of the world, we have less than 48 hours in which to get married...”
Luckily for Russia, that particular suggestion was averted – not necessarily in the most welcome fashion, but what followed was nonetheless fortuitous. Namely, he found himself being abruptly kissed by France. Whereupon he was released – Ukraine was given similar treatment. Russia wondered idly if he ought to intervene when France turned towards Belarus.
Well, in all probability, the worst that could happen was a knife wound.
He rather hoped the blood would not stain the wallpaper. The cleaning staff had been rather annoyed the last time that had happened.
Re: DIY Doomsday (5c/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-23 10:01 pm (UTC)(link)“France?” Canada knelt beside France, who was lying injured on the floor.
France rolled onto his side, lazily propping up his head in one hand. “Oh, it’s nothing. ‘Tis but a flesh wound. Actually, ‘tis but a punch to the face. I decided to set myself a challenge, you see: kiss everyone in the room before we are consigned to oblivion.”
After knowing France for centuries, Canada recognised that there was little purpose in asking ‘why’. The answer would inevitably be some variation on ‘why not?’ Generally, France’s behaviour was not determined by whether or not something was a good idea, but simply whether or not there was anything to stop him. “Oh,” decided Canada. “So your challenge didn’t go down so well with Belarus, then?”
“Not in the slightest. How did you guess?” deadpanned France.
“Don’t be sarcastic,” said Canada, vaguely.
“I was being ironic – surely you cannot deny me the right to be vaguely ironic on the eve of destruction?” said France, teasingly.
“What did you expect to happen, anyway?”
“I expected her to punch me in the face, of course. But I also expected to be faster at ducking out of the way.”
“Ah.”
“Yes, well.”
After knowing France for centuries, Canada really ought to have remembered that, however futile, it was simply too difficult to withstand asking ‘why’. Hence: “... Why?”
France smiled. “I wanted to say farewell. As Belgium said, it is our last opportunity. Something of a shock, but there you go. Look at everyone.” He waved a languid hand in the general direction of the other nations. “They’ve already split off into little groups to say what needs to be said. Personally, I dislike this factionalism.”
Canada had to admit, there was logic to that, albeit skewed logic. Utterly characteristic of France, of course.
“However,” added France, “upon consideration, the continuation of my challenge seems... unwise.” He massaged his nose, wincing.
“Spoken to England yet?” asked Canada, attempting a tone that was light and casual. Probably failing. But someone had to say it.
“Now why would I want to speak to him in particular?” France’s eyes, however, twinkled. Canada rolled his own eyes, exasperatedly. Irony again.
Op
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-24 14:03 (UTC) - ExpandRe: DIY Doomsday (5c/?)
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-24 17:23 (UTC) - ExpandRe: DIY Doomsday (6/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-26 06:53 pm (UTC)(link)(Did his Licence to Break the Fourth Wall cover gratuitous referencing? He hoped so. Wouldn’t do to get that confiscated – not in times like these.)
The trouble was that they were just too damned adaptable. Having lived through the threat of destruction, disintegration, revolution, partition, cold wars, incredibly heated wars – it took a lot to frighten them. Apparently it took even more than the prospect of total obliteration.
Also, it did very little to loosen their tongues, much less shake the foundations of their meticulously structured denial. Only Blind Idiot had managed to choke out the word ‘love’ and, even then, all Short Tempered seemed to be capable of was gazing dumbfounded into his eyes. No, wait, not even his eyes. Too awkward for even that. Short Tempered was staring at the wallpaper.
Truly, Molests Everyone had had the right idea. Direct and to the point. Pity he ended up being the first minor casualty of the day.
Meanwhile, Heroic Host was busy chasing after a pipe dream, like an adorable yet misguided puppy chasing towards a speeding bulldozer.
Oh, and there were Slightly Effeminate and Ridiculously Effeminate! Well, they seemed – great Yrrighnt, did no-one take impending doom seriously any more? – cheerful. What, pray tell, did it take to frighten Ridiculously Effeminate? Was Ridiculously Effeminate even capable of fear? Or had he devised some kind of ingenious exit strategy, involving balloons and ponies? That did not even bear thinking about.
Inadvertent Tomboy and Gun-Toting Neutral had joined Egocentric et al. Mangled Speech and Santa Claus seemed to be in the midst of intent conversation. Huh. Mangled Speech was attempting conversation? Interesting. Well, at least some effort was being made from that corner. Tony was hardly expecting miracles, though – not when both were so clearly (and nonsensically) terrified of each other.
There went Diminutive, off to greet Chronically Repressed. Tony had not even realised that Diminutive was here. He almost pitied Repressed.
Tony glanced at I’m Fine With Being a Cultural Stereotype. She _glared_ at him.
Re: DIY Doomsday (6b/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-26 06:55 pm (UTC)(link)“Really?” Lithuania tried not to wince. Or indicate any other sign of despair. If he did, he might be forced to explain to Poland why balloons could not levitate them high enough to escape the missile blast. And that would be unfair, because to deprive someone of the scant hope that they had in this situation would be cruel.
Plus, he probably wouldn’t believe him.
“It doesn’t matter if our land moves, right? I mean, we’re, like, still countries. We still exist. Yeah? So, I’m thinking we get all of our best divers to swim under the sea and link all the countries together underneath with chains. You with me so far? So all the land is, like, chained together. OK. Then we get some rocket launcher type-things and fix them to the land. Then, boom! We’re airborne! So we fly to the moon and sorta arrange the land back where it used to be, only, like, on the moon! So it doesn’t matter if the Earth gets destroyed, ‘cause nobody will be on it!”
Poland grinned, triumphantly. Looked at Lithuania. Seemed to be expecting enthusiasm, or at least approval. For a second, Lithuania felt a strange compulsion to agree with happy alacrity, simply because – because Poland somehow had that effect on people. On – well, on him.
However, there was another factor to contend with: his own sanity. “Um,” said Lithuania, assertively. “Poland. There are a few problems with that.”
“Oh, you’re wondering where we get water from, huh? Easy! When the Earth goes kaboom, all the water will, like, explode everywhere. So some of it will splash onto the moon. Till then, we can take up as much bottled water as we can. It’ll be fine!”
“Actually, that’s not the problem I was thinking of.” The problem is, thought Lithuania, that there is nothing even remotely feasible about that plan. Or is that too general for just one problem? But, to be honest, he did not even want to voice his criticisms. Mostly because, as always, he found himself incapable of formulating a logical argument, faced with such illogic and, well, with Poland.
“Oh, there’s the fact that we’re still kinda locked in this room, right? And that for some reason nobody’s phone seems to be working? Well, that’s easy. All we have to do is cut a hole in the floor and escape!”
Lithuania looked at Poland’s expression. It was... so unbelievably animated that it defied belief.
“Look, you don’t think that after all the surviving I’ve done that I’m really going to die?” asked Poland, in genuine disbelief. “I’m, like, invincible.”
Lithuania could not think of a response to that. It was too – too typical. And, in an odd way, almost a relief. Not even ‘you’re insane’ worked as a response because, damn it, he was probably right. Poland was invincible. How could anything ever get the better of him? And yet – and yet it was utterly hopeless. How typical of Poland to refuse to recognise a lost cause! Lithuania knew that nothing could induce him to disillusion him. Not that there was a force on Earth that had the power to disillusion Poland, who happened to be extremely fond of his illusions.
So really, there was very little he could think of to say.
Instead, seized by some insane impulse, he grabbed Poland by the shoulders, in an inexpert embrace. “You – do know I love you, right?” he breathed. Their faces were very near. It was fairly awkward. He wondered if he, Lithuania, was slightly mad. Overall, it would make sense.
Poland blinked. “Tchyeah. I knew that. I love you too. I mean, duh! But at the moment, we’re talking about escape tactics.”
Then, flying in the face of all logic and caution, Lithuania pulled him forward, closing the space between them. And there was no more talk of escape tactics.
Re: DIY Doomsday (6b/?)
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-26 19:56 (UTC) - ExpandRe: DIY Doomsday (6b/?)
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-26 22:54 (UTC) - ExpandRe: DIY Doomsday (6b/?)
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-27 14:30 (UTC) - ExpandRe: DIY Doomsday (6c/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-27 05:34 pm (UTC)(link)“Oh, leave them be,” said Hungary. Gleefully. Austria smiled, exasperatedly. “They’re just kissing! It’s sweet!”
Switzerland briefly considered putting a hand over Liechtenstein’s eyes. But no. To business. “Au-Austria,” he said, stiffly. “If I could have a word with you.”
Austria did not budge. “What is it, Switzerland?”
Switzerland paused. He had been hoping to be spared making this admission in front of Prussia and Hungary. Nonetheless. With great dignity and restraint, he said: “I - am willing to admit that I was once your friend.”
“... What?”
“Currently, I despise you,” said Switzerland, lest Austria be mistaken with regards to where he stood. “However. Seeing as we are so close to death, it seems only right to set the record straight. So – I was, I feel I must admit, despite what I have maintained previously, once your friend.”
Austria nodded, perplexed. “But... I know you were,” he pointed out. “Mostly because I was there at the time.”
“Yes. Well.” With the air of one whose massive gesture of conciliation had been quashed, Switzerland fell silent.
“... Thank you,” said Austria, unsure as to whether this was the correct response.
Luckily, it seemed to be. “You’re welcome,” muttered Switzerland. “Right. Done that. Yes. Um.”
Meanwhile, Hungary was warmly saying goodbye to Liechtenstein. “This doesn’t seem fair at all,” she said. “Not when you escaped this sort of thing so recently.”
“It’s not nice,” agreed Liechtenstein, sadly. “I’ll miss you.”
“Who says we won’t all be together afterwards?” asked Hungary. With that, the two embraced. “You know what I hate?” she said, voice muffled.
“What?”
She released Liechtenstein and laughed, briefly. “I hate secrets,” she said. “I hate the idea that there’s anything I know that nobody else knows. Particularly now.”
“Well – there’s time,” said Liechtenstein.
“Yeah. I suppose so,” said Hungary, thoughtfully. “I’m going to be really angry if we aren’t all together after we die,” she added, stubbornly.
“Tch. Yeah, yeah, whatever!” said Prussia, derisively, causing the two to jump. “Spare us the sobs and stuff, Hungary. It’s pathetic! Hey. Liechtenstein. Smile, OK? This whole death thing? It’s just stupid.”
Hungary darted an angry glance at him, but Liechtenstein giggled, weakly. “OK,” she said. “But you have to smile too.”
Prussia obliged, with a broad, sincere grin. “See? It’s stupid. Forget about the whole thing.”
“That’s completely illogical,” said Hungary, irritated.
“I know, right?” he laughed. “So what! Logic is stupid too!”
Hungary tried to narrow her eyes disdainfully at him, but could not help smiling at the same time, which rather ruined the effect.
Re: DIY Doomsday (6d/?)
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-28 21:04 (UTC) - ExpandRe: DIY Doomsday (6d/?)
(Anonymous) - 2010-10-07 20:55 (UTC) - ExpandRe: DIY Doomsday (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2011-03-23 08:09 am (UTC)(link)Re: DIY Doomsday (3/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-28 10:47 pm (UTC)(link)lol americas the only one named...I think I loveyouuu
Re: DIY Doomsday (6e/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-30 06:11 pm (UTC)(link)England and America had really been arguing for far too long. Inevitably, the quality of the dispute had deteriorated until they began recycling old, tedious grievances that were still somehow reassuring to list.
“Anyway, I’m not taking lectures from someone who can’t even cook without carbonising the food!” yelled America, thoroughly enjoying the pettiness. He and England had gravitated to a corner of the room that was half tucked away, half concealed from the rest of the nations.
(Unless they happened to be positioned on the floor – but, well, more of that later.)
“This is stupid,” said England, but he smiled.
America laughed, delightedly. “Yep. It’s pretty dumb.”
There was a pause.
“So let’s stop being dumb,” said America, firmly. As with everything else that was said between the two, his meaning was ambiguous, but neither were in any doubt of what he was trying to half-say. All in all, double-speak could have been the universal language for the world’s nations.
England felt a sensation similar to that of being kicked in the stomach.
“England,” said America, “I’m being serious.” Again – totally unambiguous in its ambiguity.
“No you’re not,” said England. Decisively.
“I totally am!” said America, with equal decision, laughing.
“In which case, don’t be,” pleaded England.
“What?” America looked completely taken aback. “Look, we’ve been doing this – whatever we’re doing – for ages. And it’s dumb. So let’s stop and actually accept – things as they are.” He took a step close, eyes wide and imploring. But still so confident and unfazed... and innocent. He had managed to last for centuries without ever losing that bright-eyed look.
Yet still, they could only bring themselves to allude to it! England realised that it was time to be honest – completely so. Time to pretend that America had been explicit rather than implicit about the situation, and respond accordingly.
“The truth is, America – we’re a bad influence on each other,” began England. This was... painful. “If I was still a Great Power – still an Empire – it might have been, well, possible. As it is, you are far too much the way I used to be, only perhaps more so. If we were on equal footing, the situation would be different. As it is now... suffice to say that there was a time where I was besotted. I was your willing slave. I would have done anything for you – that, I suppose, is the trouble at the moment; I would still be persuaded to do anything you asked. Alongside you, I am nothing but the shadow of a once-mighty empire. I could not bear to play that part for long. If I can’t be mighty, I have to be successful elsewhere. Anyway, I’m too old to be playing at imperialism.”
“I’m not – imperialism? What the hell?” Stung, America recoiled.
“Not my kind of imperialism,” said England. “A new kind, all your own.” He tried not to allow too much bitterness to creep into his words, but it was difficult.
“I’m not an empire! I’m a democracy, for fuck’s sake! THE democracy!”
He was not making this easy. Which was, of course, to be expected but - nonetheless. England would have liked it to have been easy.
“You are the dominant world power. And you are perfectly capable of a certain kind of tyranny. But this is no time to lecture – I’m sorry. I’m not – I’m not indifferent, America.” It was not so much a confession of love as it was a declaration of surface-level compatibility. As for America – well, it teetered on the edge of confession, didn’t it? As always.
Author!anon
(Anonymous) 2010-09-30 06:14 pm (UTC)(link)(Slightly superfluous comment, I know, but I'm always making that mistake with fills, so yeah...)
Op
(Anonymous) 2010-09-30 10:24 pm (UTC)(link)I love all the little bits about the nations, and that you're taking the time to develop each relationship. I totally loved Poland's part like omgawd. And your Hungayyr is seriously hardcore 8)
Now, this...USUK:
“The truth is, America – we’re a bad influence on each other,” began England. This was... painful. “If I was still a Great Power – still an Empire – it might have been, well, possible. As it is, you are far too much the way I used to be, only perhaps more so. If we were on equal footing, the situation would be different. As it is now... suffice to say that there was a time where I was besotted. I was your willing slave. I would have done anything for you – that, I suppose, is the trouble at the moment; I would still be persuaded to do anything you asked. Alongside you, I am nothing but the shadow of a once-mighty empire. I could not bear to play that part for long. If I can’t be mighty, I have to be successful elsewhere. Anyway, I’m too old to be playing at imperialism.”
So very much my headcanon, author anon. It's wonderful. I lovelovelove you for taking the time to give them this moment, even in a fic with other pairings. Like, really, you're gonna write my three favourite pairings in this fic! I've never seen it before! USUK, FrUK and AmeRus. I ♥ you anon (and I love that it was England the one to end their ambiguous game, since he's the eldest and probably conscious that he has limited time and has to address his issues, his bucketload of issues, with a certain someone elseXD)
“Not my kind of imperialism,” said England. “A new kind, all your own.” He tried not to allow too much bitterness to creep into his words, but it was difficult.
Totally my headcanon, again. I wonder why USUK fics don't address this issue more often. Do they really think England is bitter when he looks at America just because he lost him? I've always thought that he more than anything is bitter about losing his empire and power, to his child, to bring the humiliation even more home.
I think it's awesome that he confronted his feelings about it, and also forced America to confront that he's also an empire -a new kind, the economic one.
“You are the dominant world power. And you are perfectly capable of a certain kind of tyranny. But this is no time to lecture – I’m sorry. I’m not – I’m not indifferent, America.” It was not so much a confession of love as it was a declaration of surface-level compatibility. As for America – well, it teetered on the edge of confession, didn’t it? As always.
YES YES YES <3
DIY Doomsday (6g/?)
(Anonymous) - 2010-10-03 10:45 (UTC) - ExpandRe: DIY Doomsday (6f/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-02 07:35 am (UTC)(link)This section picks up directly from the last Ireland and Belgium scene, by the way.)
--
“What?” asked Belgium.
“It’s from a poem,” explained Ireland. “’The Second Coming’, by Yeats. It’s a visionary sort of thing – it describes some kind of catastrophe that the poet foresaw, where the world begins to descend into chaos. ‘Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold’. It’s based around the Christian notion of the second coming of Christ, except it’s more about – well, the end of the world as we know it. Written in 1919, so you can hardly blame him for thinking world destruction was at hand!”
Belgium nodded, confusedly.
“Wars, revolutions, fighting for independence and all that,” explained Ireland. “You know, I guess Yeats is sort of vindicated by what’s happening now. Who knows – maybe he predicted this!”
“You,” said Belgium, “have a really morbid sense of humour.”
“Yes, yes I do.” They laughed together.
“So,” said Belgium. “Yeats?”
“Yeah. I’ve always liked the way that poem goes from miniscule to colossal. It begins with the falcon, spinning away out of control, and then ends in worldwide devastation. Like one action that goes hideously wrong. It’s as though the whole thing gains momentum – until everything collapses.” Ireland accompanied this with expansive hand gestures, presumably the better to illustrate concepts such as ‘devastation’ and ‘hideously wrong’.
“Like an alien pressing a tiny button to destroy the Earth,” said Belgium, wryly.
“Oh yeah. Ugh. Speaking of that alien thing – it’s staring at me.” Ireland shuddered.
“Ignore him,” said Belgium, dismissively.
“Can’t I go bash its head against the wall? Just a little bit? Please?”
“Ireland,” said Belgium, reproachfully.
“Not even enough to do any real damage!” Ireland assured her. “Just enough to repay it for effectively murdering us all!”
“Ireland!” This time, Belgium’s reproach was more sharply expressed.
“You’re just no fun,” said Ireland, pouting.
“Tell me the rest of the poem,” said Belgium, unexpectedly. She keeps doing that, thought Ireland. Saying unexpected things, that is.
“Huh? You want me to read it out to you?”
“Yes please.”
“All right... but – well, poetry read aloud never sounds as good as when you read it. I'm serious! It never matches up to the voice in your head. Everyone reads a poem differently – it seems to clash really awfully when someone adds a different intonation to a word, or – well, you get the picture.”
Belgium listened, nodding. “Ireland?” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Just read me the poem already.”
“Tch. If that’s what you really want... ‘Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear...”
Re: DIY Doomsday (6g/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-03 10:47 am (UTC)(link)America refused to meet England’s eyes. “What does it matter now?” he asked, barely masking his frustration. “It’s not like a long-term thing is really an option at the moment! I lo – I just want us to be together now. Just for the time we’ve got left, for God’s sake.”
England shook his head, unsure of how to phrase his refusal. Delicately, he supposed. “I’m – sorry, America. I need someone who is the same as me. I need an equal, not a superior or inferior. We – we grew out of each other long ago, I think.”
“Like hell we did!” America still looked resolutely away.
“I don’t think we’ll ever stop loving each other – it’s just that the strength of it has dwindled.”
America whipped around, angrily. “I never said – love!” Unconvincingly.
Neither of us had to say it; it was always obvious, thought England. Nevertheless, he said, calmly: “All right, then. My mistake.”
America appeared to crumple, visibly. “I didn’t – not mean lo – ah, forget it!” He made a move as if to walk away.
England grabbed his hand, to prevent him. “We loved each other at different times, mostly,” he said, reaching to the heart of the matter. As it were. “And whenever our loves coincided, it was the wrong time anyhow.”
“I don’t love you!”
“I believe you.”
“No you don’t.”
“No, I don’t,” admitted England. America still had not let go of his hand.
“Hey – England!” The third voice came from somewhere at the other end of the room. Seconds later, they were joined by a third – well, for want of a better word – England hesitated to use the term on a matter of principle – nation.
“Sealand? Go away,” said England, firmly.
“Jerk,” said Sealand, refusing to leave; America complied instead, wrenching his hand back and walking away, heading for – well, for the other end of the room. Admittedly, in their current situation, it was difficult to make an exit with much impact or significance (although somehow America still managed). England resisted the urge to smash someone’s head against the wall – his own, perhaps.
“What’s going on?” asked Sealand, insistently. “No-one will tell me why everyone’s gone crazy!” England took the opportunity to reflect that none of his ex-charges seemed to have been incapable of learning to read the atmosphere. He refused to accept responsibility for this and considered blaming France instead. Why France could be blamed in Sealand’s case was something of a mystery, but England was certain that he could think of some excuse or other if given sufficient time.
“We’re all going to die very soon,” said England, bluntly.
“Very funny. Seriously!”
“I’m being serious, Sealand.”
“Yeah, right!”
“Suit yourself. Sealand? Listen to me; this is important,” England watched America stalk away to the furthest end of the room. “Never grow up. Just don’t do it.” Sealand looked perplexed; England ploughed on regardless. “For one thing, the prospect of you growing up occasionally haunts my nightmares. More importantly – it simply is not worth it. Trust me.” England told himself he was being flippant, but only half believed it.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say! I’m going to be the greatest nation in the world one day!”
“We have less than two days to live, Sealand. Even for the most enterprising of nations, that’s a tad ambitious.”
“Don’t believe you. Hey – ha! You called me a nation!”
“... Yes, I suppose I did.” Damn it all.
Re: DIY Doomsday (6g/?)
(Anonymous) - 2010-10-03 16:41 (UTC) - ExpandRe: DIY Doomsday (6g/?)
(Anonymous) - 2010-10-04 14:52 (UTC) - Expandnew anon
(Anonymous) 2010-10-08 04:37 am (UTC)(link)Awesome, anon! Just awesome!
THIS ANON LOVES SCIFI REFERENCES 8D
(Anonymous) 2011-03-21 05:30 am (UTC)(link)I'm sad to say that I can't recall what the spores raining down on the nameless planet refers to. D: