'England' and 'America' are secret agents for rival groups, at the top of their game and itching for an excuse to get rid of the competition. Any suitable setting; evil organizations/super'hero'-vs-super'villain'/cyberpunk dystopia, etc--just make it as violent/gritty/twisted as you dare, preferably with no one firmly in the 'right' or 'wrong.'
Arthur and Alfred are regular guys who meet one day and get along great despite all the insults/bickering. They go from friends to close friends, and, only if anon wants, to "I do not gaze at him will you stop these ridiculous insinuations"and "WHAT that was a TOTALLY PLATONIC MANLY hug " They have lots of fun and lols.
Of course the two worlds inevitably collide. How and what happens after is entirely up to anon. :)
Bonus: 1. One/both getting suspicious but inwardly denying it with increasingly implausible excuses. The relationship grows strained regardless. 2. Fights scenes. With explosions! ♥ 3. For anons who want to, actual snuggly, nose-in-hair Alfred. :D
Again, if there is a well-written fic with this premise, in or out of the meme, kindly point me there and consider this filled.
Hi everyone. Welcome to this fill. In this chapter Just Like V has the cyber-dystopia hat on. Next chapter it will be so bromantic that Good Will Hunting will seem like soft gay porn in comparison. Please, enjoy.
America was a dead country. And yet there was an outlaw that tried to keep the memory of the nation alive, one hundred years after its dissolution.
He called himself America, and he robbed banks, just like Jesse James. If Jesse James wore whiteface and deep red lipstick to go with his James Dean jacket. Hell, as far as anyone knew, Jesse James did just that. History from that part of the world had been banned for fifty years, after all, and people were quick to forget and reinvent.
It would be bad to admire someone like America, someone who went so against everything that the new Siecle stood for. And yet there were 'artists' who immortalized the criminal and insured his place in history despite all the attempts to cleanse it of his kind.
God help the man who discovered spraypaint that became one with the wall, England thought as he blasted the wall with a high-pressure air propellant that resembled a spraypaint can in itself.
Permanent spraypaint, based on the elements of fresco painting in the Renaissance, had been just one of the things that the Americists used to immortalize their hero. There was a chemical in the paint that temporarily liquidized the wall's surface, and then they added their colour with Patina, a discolourant that made one bottle of spraypaint count for all colours and their shades, depending on how skilled someone was. After the wall dried, there was no hope of getting the painting out without the use of an air propellant or a chisel.
England, as an enforcer, the enforcer in fact, made it a point to take time out of his schedule to go on graffiti duty. There was nothing that could boost morale more in the force than seeing their superior, the paragon of most things in this world, taking initiative and blasting America's painted face into oblivion. It was just as much an act of propaganda as the paintings were.
England loved this new world.
"What are you doing?" said a soft/harsh voice from behind him. England turned around, calmly ready to explain that he was not painting, he was getting rid of the defacement on the wall, when he registered who was standing there.
Ruby lips.
Whiteface.
So that was a skullcap he wore.
"America," England said. He had so many questions to ask, so he chose the one most relevant at the time. "If you love that dead country so much, then why do you dress like Boy George?"
America cocked a black-pencilled eyebrow at this.
"I dress like the Joker," he said. "Obviously. What are you doing to my picture?"
"Hardly matters. What are you doing here?"
"Blowing up this building," America said casually, and pressed a button on his thigh.
An ominous ticking sound started from within the building that England was blasting. Behind his wide sunglasses, England's eyes widened and he dashed ten metres before the building practically collapsed on itself. America was still standing there, smiling like a fool in the five seconds of dead silence that followed the anticlimactic collapse. Then there was an actual explosion, with lurid red fire and spewing ash.
"Better than the Fourth of July!" America yelled over the roar of the flames. "Just like V!"
England knew then. He was going to cut America into little tiny pieces.
It was only when America was gone that England realized he couldn't remember the colour of his eyes.
haha, I'm loving this world of yours already and I hope you can expand on it. This of course begs the question of why America is a dead country. Also is England actually a nation-tan or is he just a human with England as his name? Is Alfred human? Is America and England going to get together romantically or just as friends? Ah questions, questions everywhere.
PS. LOL for America's Joker disguise and England's calling it out as Boy George instead.
Alfred was smoking a cigarette, but threw it away with a guilty grin when he saw Arthur come out to his front porch.
"Hey Art!"
The two were as different as friends could be. Arthur immediately brought to mind someone who had been working all night and then sleeping in the bathtub to keep his suit immaculate. His dusty blond hair was perpetually sticking up in strange places, and his green eyes stood out on his pale and harried face. Alfred, on the other hand, was like a hyperactive puppy; he jumped around and spoke a mile a minute, and was hardly ever seen without a cigarette hanging lazily from his mouth.
Arthur didn't really know this, but Alfred was only hyperactive when he had stayed up all night.
"I thought you quit smoking," Arthur said shortly. Alfred pouted.
"I'm wounded, Artie," he said, crossing his heart passionately. "I wasn't smoking, see?"
"Of course you weren't. And that isn't a lit cigarette on my lawn," Arthur pointed out with a sigh of exasperation, trying not to think too hard about the possibility of Alfred setting his little house on fire. "Far too jumpy, Alfred."
"I can't help it. I dunno, my mom dropped me on my head when I was young," Alfred said, gingerly picking up the cigarette and waving it out. Before dropping it on the sidewalk again.
Arthur flinched at his inflection. Alfred had the unfortunate habit of slipping into American vernacular, which was highly discouraged, even at the archives where they worked. At the archives, eccentricities were tolerated because the abilities they had, photographic memories and the like. Alfred's eccentricities, however, could be grating.
"It's going to be a hell of a day today," Alfred said, stretching out his arms and starting to walk with his friend. "Elizaveta's got comic books for translation today. Are you excited?"
"Frankly, no," Arthur said. "I hate Fridays with a passion."
"Why...? Oh," Alfred said in sudden revelation. "That's why..."
Every Friday, Arthur had to bring his report to the supervisor, which was far too often, but what could you do in a bureaucracy? And every Friday, Mr. Bonnefoy would smile rakishly and comb back his thinning gold hair with a soft white hand before thanking him for the excellent report. It made Arthur uncomfortable beyond belief.
"Maybe he's sick today."
"That man is never sick," Arthur said. "At least, not in the pharmaceutical sense of the word. God, just thinking about the man makes my teeth hurt."
"I'm there for you," Alfred said in mock-serious tones, and patted Arthur lightly on the shoulder.
Arthur huffed and stretched again, hissing when he felt a bruise in the small of his back stretch. But he wouldn't complain about that to his friend. He knew better than to do anything like that. Alfred could get overly concerned with his friends at time, and Arthur wasn't in the mood to lie about the burn he had from last night's frantic attempt to put out a fire before it spread to other houses.
"Hey, I got tickets for the museum tonight. Do you want to see the new War Propaganda exhibit? I hear they have Uncle Sam posters, even. I bet Uncle Sam's a robot."
At the mention of the museum, Arthur's eyes lit up with excitement. He hadn't been to the museum since God knows when. He had no money for the venture. Alfred saw how much happier his friend was, and indulged in a hug that made several of Arthur's ribs groan from pressure.
"Fagssssssss," someone called from a car going by.
"Dude! That was a totally manly hug!" Alfred yelled passionately, breaking away from Arthur hurriedly. "Only real men hug!"
He decided to ask Arthur about what shampoo he used later.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
US, UK - secret identity au
(Anonymous) 2010-09-22 04:21 am (UTC)(link)Arthur and Alfred are regular guys who meet one day and get along great despite all the insults/bickering. They go from friends to close friends, and, only if anon wants, to "I do not gaze at him will you stop these ridiculous insinuations"and "WHAT that was a TOTALLY PLATONIC MANLY hug " They have lots of fun and lols.
Of course the two worlds inevitably collide. How and what happens after is entirely up to anon. :)
Bonus:
1. One/both getting suspicious but inwardly denying it with increasingly implausible excuses. The relationship grows strained regardless.
2. Fights scenes. With explosions! ♥
3. For anons who want to, actual snuggly, nose-in-hair Alfred. :D
Again, if there is a well-written fic with this premise, in or out of the meme, kindly point me there and consider this filled.
Just Like V
(Anonymous) 2010-09-24 03:47 am (UTC)(link)America was a dead country. And yet there was an outlaw that tried to keep the memory of the nation alive, one hundred years after its dissolution.
He called himself America, and he robbed banks, just like Jesse James. If Jesse James wore whiteface and deep red lipstick to go with his James Dean jacket. Hell, as far as anyone knew, Jesse James did just that. History from that part of the world had been banned for fifty years, after all, and people were quick to forget and reinvent.
It would be bad to admire someone like America, someone who went so against everything that the new Siecle stood for. And yet there were 'artists' who immortalized the criminal and insured his place in history despite all the attempts to cleanse it of his kind.
God help the man who discovered spraypaint that became one with the wall, England thought as he blasted the wall with a high-pressure air propellant that resembled a spraypaint can in itself.
Permanent spraypaint, based on the elements of fresco painting in the Renaissance, had been just one of the things that the Americists used to immortalize their hero. There was a chemical in the paint that temporarily liquidized the wall's surface, and then they added their colour with Patina, a discolourant that made one bottle of spraypaint count for all colours and their shades, depending on how skilled someone was. After the wall dried, there was no hope of getting the painting out without the use of an air propellant or a chisel.
England, as an enforcer, the enforcer in fact, made it a point to take time out of his schedule to go on graffiti duty. There was nothing that could boost morale more in the force than seeing their superior, the paragon of most things in this world, taking initiative and blasting America's painted face into oblivion. It was just as much an act of propaganda as the paintings were.
England loved this new world.
"What are you doing?" said a soft/harsh voice from behind him. England turned around, calmly ready to explain that he was not painting, he was getting rid of the defacement on the wall, when he registered who was standing there.
Ruby lips.
Whiteface.
So that was a skullcap he wore.
"America," England said. He had so many questions to ask, so he chose the one most relevant at the time. "If you love that dead country so much, then why do you dress like Boy George?"
America cocked a black-pencilled eyebrow at this.
"I dress like the Joker," he said. "Obviously. What are you doing to my picture?"
"Hardly matters. What are you doing here?"
"Blowing up this building," America said casually, and pressed a button on his thigh.
An ominous ticking sound started from within the building that England was blasting. Behind his wide sunglasses, England's eyes widened and he dashed ten metres before the building practically collapsed on itself. America was still standing there, smiling like a fool in the five seconds of dead silence that followed the anticlimactic collapse. Then there was an actual explosion, with lurid red fire and spewing ash.
"Better than the Fourth of July!" America yelled over the roar of the flames. "Just like V!"
England knew then. He was going to cut America into little tiny pieces.
It was only when America was gone that England realized he couldn't remember the colour of his eyes.
Re: Just Like V
(Anonymous) 2010-09-24 04:08 am (UTC)(link)Re: Just Like V
(Anonymous) 2010-09-24 04:15 am (UTC)(link)Re: Just Like V
(Anonymous) 2010-09-24 07:21 am (UTC)(link)PS. LOL for America's Joker disguise and England's calling it out as Boy George instead.
Hope to see more of this fill soon.
Thanks.
Re: Just Like V
(Anonymous) 2010-09-24 10:49 am (UTC)(link)Re: Just Like V
(Anonymous) 2010-09-24 10:10 pm (UTC)(link)Can't wait to see how all of this plays out. <3
OHMYGODILOVEYOU
(Anonymous) 2010-09-25 08:29 am (UTC)(link)THANK YOU SO MUCH! YOU OWN MY HEART RIGHT NOW. ♥
Just Like V (2)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-26 03:05 am (UTC)(link)Alfred was smoking a cigarette, but threw it away with a guilty grin when he saw Arthur come out to his front porch.
"Hey Art!"
The two were as different as friends could be. Arthur immediately brought to mind someone who had been working all night and then sleeping in the bathtub to keep his suit immaculate. His dusty blond hair was perpetually sticking up in strange places, and his green eyes stood out on his pale and harried face. Alfred, on the other hand, was like a hyperactive puppy; he jumped around and spoke a mile a minute, and was hardly ever seen without a cigarette hanging lazily from his mouth.
Arthur didn't really know this, but Alfred was only hyperactive when he had stayed up all night.
"I thought you quit smoking," Arthur said shortly. Alfred pouted.
"I'm wounded, Artie," he said, crossing his heart passionately. "I wasn't smoking, see?"
"Of course you weren't. And that isn't a lit cigarette on my lawn," Arthur pointed out with a sigh of exasperation, trying not to think too hard about the possibility of Alfred setting his little house on fire. "Far too jumpy, Alfred."
"I can't help it. I dunno, my mom dropped me on my head when I was young," Alfred said, gingerly picking up the cigarette and waving it out. Before dropping it on the sidewalk again.
Arthur flinched at his inflection. Alfred had the unfortunate habit of slipping into American vernacular, which was highly discouraged, even at the archives where they worked. At the archives, eccentricities were tolerated because the abilities they had, photographic memories and the like. Alfred's eccentricities, however, could be grating.
"It's going to be a hell of a day today," Alfred said, stretching out his arms and starting to walk with his friend. "Elizaveta's got comic books for translation today. Are you excited?"
"Frankly, no," Arthur said. "I hate Fridays with a passion."
"Why...? Oh," Alfred said in sudden revelation. "That's why..."
Every Friday, Arthur had to bring his report to the supervisor, which was far too often, but what could you do in a bureaucracy? And every Friday, Mr. Bonnefoy would smile rakishly and comb back his thinning gold hair with a soft white hand before thanking him for the excellent report. It made Arthur uncomfortable beyond belief.
"Maybe he's sick today."
"That man is never sick," Arthur said. "At least, not in the pharmaceutical sense of the word. God, just thinking about the man makes my teeth hurt."
"I'm there for you," Alfred said in mock-serious tones, and patted Arthur lightly on the shoulder.
Arthur huffed and stretched again, hissing when he felt a bruise in the small of his back stretch. But he wouldn't complain about that to his friend. He knew better than to do anything like that. Alfred could get overly concerned with his friends at time, and Arthur wasn't in the mood to lie about the burn he had from last night's frantic attempt to put out a fire before it spread to other houses.
"Hey, I got tickets for the museum tonight. Do you want to see the new War Propaganda exhibit? I hear they have Uncle Sam posters, even. I bet Uncle Sam's a robot."
At the mention of the museum, Arthur's eyes lit up with excitement. He hadn't been to the museum since God knows when. He had no money for the venture. Alfred saw how much happier his friend was, and indulged in a hug that made several of Arthur's ribs groan from pressure.
"Fagssssssss," someone called from a car going by.
"Dude! That was a totally manly hug!" Alfred yelled passionately, breaking away from Arthur hurriedly. "Only real men hug!"
He decided to ask Arthur about what shampoo he used later.
Re: Just Like V (2)
(Anonymous) 2010-09-26 04:06 am (UTC)(link)For some reason that last line put a ridiculous grin on my face. :D