WIP

[historize]

Title:
Author/Artist: historyblitz, kept track of at historize
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Basically, everyone. This particular part has a lot of America, New Zealand, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, and a pinch of France and Spain, Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, and China.
Rating: thematic R
Warnings: violence, war


This is a bit I've been holding onto for a long time because I couldn't figure out what to do with it. But sometimes I find that I get inspired after I post things publicly. I'm not sure why that is--I guess just the pressure of, "Hey, everyone can see this! Make it better!"

The topic was...the idea of a third World War--and given the current temperament of politics right now, I just very briefly alluded to it starting in the Middle East and spreading from there. That is not something I've finalized--which is why I kept references to it short because I haven't worked it all out yet--how it started or how it's going to end.

This is not going to be a long epic story because I probably would get lost in the details. This first bit is about 30 pages and if every bit ended up being around that long, that wouldn't surprise me.

In short, any comments or anything would be really appreciated. This is, again, a work-in-progress--so nothing is set in stone. Nothing is finished. I don't even have a title picked out.


I just write and work by myself and have no one to really bounce ideas off of.


Posted here

EDIT: And my original intention to post--was too long, so I cut some of the last pages of part one off...and I guess I'll add them into part two.





Canada sat poised at his computer, fingers quivering just above the keys. He glanced at the clock (two hours past noon) and he’d only written two lines: The war was confusing and in the end, it felt like we accomplished nothing. We were lucky that Prussia did what he did—

And now he was stuck. He couldn’t start at the very beginning, because he hadn’t been there. He chewed his lip and rubbed his nose. England or Egypt or one of the others was going to have to write in the beginning. Or he would have to call them and talk to them about it.

“I’ll go to Tim Hortons,” he told himself. “Get something to eat and come back. Or—no, I’ll take some notebook paper and write while I eat. I just need a change in location.”

So, within an hour, Canada had walked down and got himself soup and a sandwich and some chocolate dip Timbits and he flipped open his notebook and began on a bright day in May.




England fell on the battlefield and didn’t rise again.

America’s attention swiveled, no longer looking at anything around him. Watching England. Get up, England. Get up. What are you doing?

He didn’t.

“England!” He took a step forward, the pit of his stomach getting colder. “England!”

Still, he didn’t rise.

And then a bomb fell.

He forgot himself. He would have run across the mine-littered expanse if France hadn’t tackled him.

“Don’t! America! Stop!”

“Get off! England—he! England!”

France struggled to hold him down, bracing his knees. “America! You can’t—he’ll be--!”

“He wasn’t moving! The bomb! Get the fuck off!” He started to rise. France clung to his back, flailing as his feet simply left the ground.

France looked around, frantically. “Canada!”

Canada had stopped, gun at his shoulder, watching the smoke clear over the minefield where England lay, his eyes wide and horrified. But these snapped over when France called him. He understood in a flash. “A-America!” He dropped his gun and ran to them. He grabbed onto his brother’s arm, holding him enough that France could slide off and grab his other arm. “America! It’s a minefield!”

“England crossed it! He was fine! Someone—! Someone—England!”

The smoke cleared. England still hadn’t risen. He was soaked in blood and half-covered in dirt. A wave of hot air swept over the prone body, traveling towards America, France and Canada. It blew into them, making them all shut their eyes for a moment. America surged forward again.

France looked over America’s shoulder. “Spain!”

He was already running for them. He dodged in front of America, putting his hands on the boy’s chest and pushing back. “What happened?”

France raised his eyes to the field and nodded. “Damn fool crossed the minefield just fine but it looks like he met a bullet. Or several.

Spain’s eyes met his and then he was looking behind him, where the body lay. Enemies they had been, back when Spain’s armada had ruled the ocean and they had been pirates in the same era. A grudging respect still lingered.

“Spain!”

America was still moving forward, seeming content to drag the rest of them. Spain braced his feet and shoved back, yelling for the others. Australia and New Zealand came to help, grabbing onto America’s legs.

And then there was a flash of red hair and Ireland appeared. “What’s going on!” She stepped in front of America and looked ready to reprimand him, until she looked at his eyes. She instantly whirled around and spotted England. “That fucking oaf!”

“He crossed the minefield all right but something took him down!” Canada’s eyes were frantic behind his goggles.

Ireland snorted and looked beyond them. “Oi! Scotty!”

Scotland was simply watching. It wasn’t often that he and Ireland joined war—being older than England and often having to fight with him had deadened their enthusiasm. Their people went sometimes but they themselves often didn’t. He was watching though and he approached. He was stockier than England but green-eyed with a smattering of freckles. “He hasn’t moved. I’ve been watching.”

Ireland tossed her gun down. “Let’s go get him.”

America blinked. “Wh—what! I’m going! I’m coming too!”

“Shut up! You don’t know anything! You’re not comin’. You’d just get in the way!”

“What?! I—“

“It has not so much to do with your people and military, lad, as it has to do with your being a young sprog from England’s brood.”

He surged forward again, dragging the others. “I am—“

“I don’t care what you think you are, boy! England is a pain in my arse but he’s our brother and no one’s allowed to kill ‘im but me!” Her eyes flashed. “Aussie, be a dear and knock your brother out, would you?”

“Yes, Auntie,” Australia let go of America’s legs and picked up an abandoned rifle.

Across the field, a soldier was approaching England’s body. The soldier had a bayonet. He stabbed with it.

America roared, wild-eyed. Australia jumped back, knocking into Ireland. Then he dodged forward, “Sorry, big brother.” And he whacked America in the face with the rifle butt. America reeled and staggered.

“Not quite enough, mate,” called New Zealand. “Do him again!”

Australia did, whacking him in the side of the head.

America slumped. France and Spain let go and Canada and Australia grabbed their older brother. New Zealand got out from beneath him to help them lift him.

“Take him to the back line. Someone stay with him in case he wakes up,” France told them.

Ireland swept a hand through her curly red hair. “Now, let’s show ‘em a little bit of old tribe magic?”

Canada, Australia and New Zealand stopped, looking back. “Tribe magic?” murmured Canada to his younger brothers. “You mean, that druid stuff England was always on about?”

Australia shrugged, shifting under America’s arm.

Scotland smiled a time-beaten smile. “It’s been a while. Never thought I’d be doing it again to save his skin.”

Ireland scowled. “Tch, he’ll be right pissed at us for saving him.”

“Rubbing it in his face will be worth it, I think.”

Ireland laughed. “Right. Let’s go then.”

On their side, nations were stopping, looking on. Russia paused on the machine guns. Germany was looking up from a table with a map on it. Italy was hiding under the table.

China smiled and raised a hand to silence Japan, “One moment.”

Ireland and Scotland jogged out together. Ireland had an old halberd. Scotland had a longsword.

“Where’d they get those?” Canada asked, looking over at France. “They didn’t have those before.”

France didn’t look at him, eyes trained on the duo. “The old nations can do mysterious things, Canada. Egypt, China, the Mesopotamians, and the ancient Celts—what they were before Rome came along—stranger things you haven’t yet seen and probably never will.”


They ran into the minefield. Ireland whirled her halberd and slammed it into the dirt. Scotland took an expansive sweep with his sword and there was a great stillness, like sound and sight were being sucked away. Their mouths were moving together. Building. Building. Building into a steady thrum and green lights erupted across the minefield and then vanished.

Canada’s mouth fell open. Australia and New Zealand both exclaimed in surprise, watching Ireland and Scotland shoot across. Not a single mine blew.

The soldier that had stabbed England to ensure he was dead had frozen in place. It took barely a flick from Ireland’s halberd to send his head up and his body down. Scotland kicked the man away and knelt, turning England over.

He and Ireland looked at each other. “I suppose he is a gentleman now,” Scotland said, almost regretfully.

“If we don’t save him, his boys—haha, maybe that’s why he wanted colonies? As insurance? That’d be something he’d do.”

Scotland nodded. “Cover me, will you?”

“Of course,” she said.

Scotland pulled the limp body onto his shoulder. “You know, we should have fought together against him more often. My wars of independence would have gone better.”

“Eh, we were stubborn too. Wanted to do it all by ourselves. And I always liked Michael Collins. Died too young, he did.” She started ahead of him and was suddenly turning, spinning her weapon. Light shot up in front of her and the rain of bullets struck it like acorns in water, rippling the surface. “This worked better on arrows.”

“We haven’t come along for his wars in awhile.”

“Usually because he starts them. Or one of his damned colonies—one of them, haha, that being America—starts them. Or France starts them—well, not so much anymore. Then Germany took his turn starting them.”

“Haha, except when Prussia or Austria started them. Prussia started that one with France. Cor, but he beat France easy.”

Ireland laughed. “I always liked Prussia. Pity he got abolished. He’s still around, you know?”

“That so? Haven’t bothered with much of Europe for awhile. I ought to go see him. Have a drink with him and his younger brother.”

“I’ll come with you, aye?” Ireland dispelled the light and waved her halberd on. “Take him across and dump him off on France. Going to take care of these poor stupid sods.”

She started towards a group of men who didn’t seem sure whether they should attack her or not. She made the decision for them.

Scotland adjusted his grip on England and ran across the minefield. France was hurrying out to meet him on the edge and accepted the bloody, limp body.

“Is he still alive?” France asked, jaw locked, eyes searching.

Scotland shrugged. “Probably.” His voice sounded cynical but there was an ironic twist to his face. “He’s good at that ‘not dying’ business.”

“Are you su—“

“I’ve fought him more times than you have hairs on your pretty gold head, France. I broke both his arms when he was little. I’m sure.”

One of the fairies that usually hid in England’s breast pocket fluttered out. She had blood on her face and one of her wings was torn. Scotland blinked. “Ah, come here, love.” He could hear her, weeping faintly. She managed a limping sort of flight to his hands, where one of his own fairies, a little green, climbed out of his pocket and went to her with a bit of leaf, wiping off her face.

France blinked, watching this. Scotland didn’t notice, assuming France wouldn’t be able to see. He cradled and protected the fairies, suddenly seeming much more interested in them and wandered away from the battlefield, until he caught sight of England’s boys in a medical tent, surrounding the eldest one. He wandered that way and nodded to them, asking idly, “How is he?”

Canada jumped up.

“Still out,” said Australia. He peered at Scotland, who looked to be staring into his hands fairly intently.

“Where’s England?”

Scotland didn’t look remotely interested in answering the question and Canada felt his stomach drop. He’s dead. He’s dead and Scotland’s come to tell us. England died. He’s—!

A hand grabbed his, jerking him from his thoughts and he looked over. New Zealand was holding his hand tightly. Calm down, his eyes seemed to say.

“Er, something wrong with your hands, mate?” Australia went on, not a break in his composure.

Scotland glanced up and a slow, lazy smile stretched over his face. “No.” His green eyes went back down. His fairy was studying England’s fairy’s wing. He whistled and another little creature popped out from Scotland’s breast pocket. They held a murmured conversation, and the green, four-legged little thing went off to get some spider-silk.

Australia stared at Scotland. He knew the three could see things that he and his brothers could not. He silently wished he could too. Maybe it would help get rid of his encroaching headache.

Another bomb went off.

Canada jumped and he and New Zealand threw themselves over America as dirt blew into the tent. Australia hopped up as well, putting a hand on the cot and staring out into the field. He blinked and said, “Oi! There’s France!” He made a sound. “Oh—he’s—he’s got ‘im!” Australia sprung away, running to France as another bomb went off, closer. He grabbed France by the arm and helped him carry England in.

“What are you—“ France began as he got England into a cot. “Scotland! If you were coming here, why didn’t you bring him yourself!”

Scotland looked up. “You seemed right eager.” And then he looked back down again, watching the fairies.

“You stupid—“ and then he went off in a flurry of French curses and he got water to clean England’s wounds. The three young nations got up, clamoring over to look at England.

“Is-is ‘e all right?” asked New Zealand, looking at the wounds with an uncharacteristic hint of uncertainty. “He’s—he’ll be all right, won’t he?”

“Course ‘e will, sheepshagger. He’s England.”

“Tch, wanker—”

“Guys,” Canada said, sounding strained. “Look—now isn’t the time for an—“

“Oh, Canada, don’t get upset. Australia was just trying to make him feel better.”

Canada looked at Scotland, who was still looking at his hands.

“Aye,” said Australia, smiling—with an edge of uncertainty in his own face, “just, you know. Bit of sport.”

“Ah, yeah,” said Canada, looking away and removing his glasses, cleaning the lenses with an unsteady hand. “Right. Sorry.”

Ireland blew into the tent a moment later. “Bastards are retreating. About bleeding time.” She stalked up to the cot but didn’t look at England. She was looking at Scotland’s hands. “Is she all right?”

France was soaking England’s brow in water, cleaning the muck and dirt from a head wound. He glanced at the fairies in Scotland’s hands.

The eyes of the eldest brother came up. “They got her some spider-silk for her wing. Didn’t check his clothes for others yet.”

Ireland opened up her vest and two little fairies, pale silver and red, shot out. “Look about,” she told them, “see if any of your brothers or sisters are in there.” Her hands followed, tearing open England’s uniform without regard to the buttons.

Scotland was still just watching the two fairies in his hands as his green helped England’s blue bandage up her wing. He said, without looking up, “Careful of his jacket, sister. They will hide from you if you are too rough with him.”

Ireland snorted. “They know me. If they want help, they’ll come out.”

Scotland did glance up now. “They may know you but they live with him.”

The significance of this statement was lost on everyone else present. It seemed to have the desired effect on Ireland though. She nodded and started to speak softly, in her old Gaelic.

France could see the little creatures peering out now. Two from England’s vest, three from his trouser pockets. One little four-legged red creature hiding in his battered boot. They were all injured. Ireland’s fairies were joined by two other sprites, who appeared to come out of her mess of curly hair. Scotland touched his thumb to his sleeve and a few others peered out to help their injured brethren.

Canada, Australia and New Zealand were clueless; unable to see what was absorbing the older three nations’ attentions. Canada said, “So…uh. What was it that took England down?”

“Probably needs a new blend of tea,” said Ireland, not missing a beat.

Australia and New Zealand both looked down so their smiles wouldn’t be obvious. Scotland kept his eyes on his fairies but he wasn’t bothering to hide his little smile. Canada wasn’t as amused. “Ireland. Really. What was it?”

“Young nations seem to forget that we don’t die so easily,” Scotland said, lifting his old, old eyes that didn’t match his body and peering at the young Canada. “England just became careless. Used his magic to cross the mine field and then, likely, his people or country suffered an attack and he froze long enough for a sniper to get him.”

“In the head,” France added, holding the towel to his skull. “A couple times.”

“In the head,” Scotland echoed.

“In the head?” Canada repeated. “W-wait—in his head?!”

“He’s already starting to heal, Canada,” France assured him.

“Yeah, he’s like one of America’s X-Men—you know the one, Wolverine,” Australia added, clapping Canada on the shoulder.

New Zealand choked and bit his lip, shaking a little.

“I-I know,” Canada said, “I know how we heal but I just—didn’t know how bad head wounds would be—“ he paused, looking at New Zealand. “What?”

“N-nothing,” sputtered New Zealand. “I just. That just made me think of—“ he pointed at England. “—him in. Uh. Yellow spandex.”

Ireland and Australia choked, snorting. Canada huffed instead, going around the cot to look at the slowly healing head wound. France’s eyebrows quirked, confused.

“Don’t think England is quite big enough?” suggested Australia. “The eyebrows make up for his lack of facial hair, though.”

“He’s not Canadian enough either,” Canada snapped. “You can see his brains—stop joking around!”

New Zealand flinched, eyes lowering. “Er. Ah. Sorry, Matt.” He glanced up when he felt a tap. Ireland winked and grinned.

Australia whispered, “S’all right. That was great.” in his ear, running a hand up his back. “Don’t worry about it. He’s just a bit wound up.”

Scotland said, as if completely uninterested, “Canada, he’ll be all right.”

The next cot groaned. America was shifting, finally coming around. Australia winked at New Zealand and then stood, going to his side. “Hey, Al?”

America swung at him.

Australia ducked. “Steady on! No reason for that!”

New Zealand went to America’s bed to restrain him, but he was already rising. “Where’s England?”

“He’s right next to you, thickhead,” Ireland snapped, rolling her eyes.

America practically tumbled out of the cot, sitting on his knees by England’s. “Where are my glasses?”

Canada took them out of his breast pocket and gave them to America. “Here.”

America jammed them on and peered through the lenses at him. “England? Hey, England?”

“He hasn’t awakened yet,” said France. “Just calm down, America. Ireland and Scotland retrieved him for us.”

America looked at them and voice shook. “Thank you.” And then turned back.

Ireland raised her eyebrows at Scotland, even though he wasn’t looking at her. But he smiled after she did, so somehow he’d known anyway. “Well, battle is over for the day. C’mon, brother, let’s go have a pint. We can bring the fairies with us. France can tell him where they are.”

“We can just have a drink with Prussia here on the field, aye?”

“Ah, you can’t—he’s out on a base in south Germany. Wouldn’t say no to a drink anyway though.” Ireland tossed her thick hair, raking her hands through it and then retying it.





The war had started the year before. A blistery summer and restless people, torn apart by frustration and fear had sparked an explosion in the Middle East. A too-heated word between Pakistan and Israel. Nuclear rivalry between North Korea and Iran—a misplaced weapon, and Saudi Arabia and Azerbaijan were involved. What began quickly spread to Egypt and the rest of Africa and Asia, involving England, the Commonwealth and France in the process. Spain joined later and America (half-paranoid someone would force his hand) jumped in headfirst.

Myanmar, who China and India knew as Burma when he had been England’s ward, fell into chaos. He was caught in his capital and unable to function. India scrambled at her borders, attempting to stop the bandits armed with AK-47s. Thailand and Bangladesh hurried to prepare themselves.

Mexico watched. Waiting. Her fingers were itching.

Prussia sat in an easy-chair, pointed at the television and said, “You should pick a side before someone picks for you, Germany. This one is going to get ugly.”

And it did.





England didn’t wake for two days. When he did, it was in a very bad humor. His head ached and he touched his forehead gingerly.

“England?”

He twitched, touching his temple and opening his eyes blearily. “What is it, America?”

And there was a resounding slap. He heard it and thought it was rather loud—and then his face started hurt. That made his eyes shoot open the rest of the way. “What the bla—did you just hit me!”

“That was me, you fucking layabout. You can’t even tell your wards apart. You’re such a bleedin’—“

England scowled. Ireland. Fucking Ireland. “What the hell are you doing here?” He glanced to his side and spotted Canada. Oh.

“Fancy bit of word coming from you. You cross a mine field with your shoddy magic and can’t be bothered to keep your head. Scotland and I had to go retrieve you. Lot of waste, if you ask me—“

“I didn’t,” England grumbled.

“Unfortunately, I wasn’t all that interested in saving you either.”

“I love you too, Ireland.”

She barked a laugh. “Oh, I’m so sure of that.”

“I’m so—“

“I don’t suppose you two could be bothered to stop for a second or two?” Scotland wasn’t looking at them, but at his hands. Canada kept taking furtive glances at him from the corner of his eye. Scotland never looked back at him, but seemed aware of them anyway. “We have tea.”

England pushed himself to sit against the headboard, reaching up and touching the heated patch on his face from Ireland’s slap. “Ah, yes, I would like a cup. Just black tea.”

“Of our very special Arsenic Blend. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

England tossed a dirty look at Ireland. She smiled sweetly. “It’s going fast.”

“Belt up.”

Scotland held out a cup to Ireland first, which she took and just held. England took his own with a murmured thanks and a nod to his brother. He started to drink but caught Ireland staring at him. “What?”

She smiled, as if caught by surprise. “Oh, my. I apologize, brother. Please, don’t mind me. I just need to time you.” She made a show of looking at her wrist. “See how long it takes. You understand.”

He rolled his eyes. “What did I do to deserve a sister like you?”

Ireland snorted that. “You didn’t actually say that out loud, did you? I mean, really?”

Scotland just watched, a little smile on his face as he put his elbow on the arm of the chair and his chin in his hand.

“England,” said Canada.

He looked over and nodded to him. “Canada, sorry about—“

“I know. Forget it. How do you feel?”

England peered at him but Canada’s face was a mask. Unreadable. “I’m all right. Where are your brothers?”

“Oi, Canada. Is he ever concerned about you?”

Canada blinked. England’s eyes whipped over. “You utter—”

“Ireland,” said Scotland. His voice was soft, gravelly and low. He raised his eyes slowly, to hers.

She smiled and gave Scotland a bow that was somewhere between mocking and gracious. “Apologies,” she said. “Do go on.”

Canada was looking at his knees. His voice became emotionless, wooden. “America is out in the front. He and New Zealand will be taking to the skies to do a nighttime raid. Australia has moved out to the coast, where he’ll join Yemen.”

“Fighting who, Canada? Who?” England insisted, in a tone that suggested Canada should have said that first.

Canada licked his upper lip and glanced up and then down. The silence stretched awkwardly.

“Canada—“

“He doesn’t know,” said Scotland, in the husky voice of his. It was not accusatory, simply a statement. “No one really knows who we’re fighting anymore. The sides are jumbled.”

“There has to be another side,” said England, exasperated. “Else there’s no war, is there.”

“I suppose they’ll figure it out when they get there, won’t they?” said Ireland. “Hope they don’t get shot down because of you having your fingers in too many pots before World War two.”

England’s eyes narrowed. “I gave up my empire. Sod off.” He looked back to Canada. “Why are you still here?”

Canada’s face darkened, something passing over it that England barely caught. It was there and then it wasn’t. Canada kept his gaze just to the left of England’s eyes. “America was going to stay and make sure you were all right but they needed him for the attack tonight. So I told him I would stay, since no one needed me.”

Scotland’s eyes, for the first time, traveled to his left, glancing at Canada and then glanced at Ireland and then put his chin in his hand and looked at his fingers. Ireland shifted, eyes lingering on Canada too before looking back at England.

England didn’t notice. He said, “Well, go and prepare yourself, you can come with me. I’ll head out tonight.”

Canada locked his jaw.

“Aren’t you a wee little bit curious about where your fairies are?”

England did a double-take at Scotland. “I assume they scattered when I was shot. They’ll return soon.”

Ireland sneered. “They were injured, you idiot. We had to take care of them.”

England shoved the blanket back, getting up, hands smoothing down his nightshirt. “Where are they?”

Ireland snickered. “Maybe you ought to change out of your jim-jams? Though France would likely enjoy the show.”

England started and glared at her. “Oh, forgive me,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You didn’t tell me they were elsewhere. Where are we anyway?” He reached up to pull it off.

Canada jolted. “E-England—there’s a lady in the room.”

England snorted, pulling the garment off and reaching for a set of trousers that were lying, folded on a nearby chair. “There are no ladies in this room.”

Ireland leaned over and patted Canada’s cheek. “How kind of you, Canada—but, you see, sisters don’t count as ladies.”

“Especially bitches like this one.”

Like this one, Ireland mouthed, pointing at herself and grinning. She looked over, watching England pull on his pants, then his trousers. “Did you get smaller?”

England did a double-take. He sneered and looked at Canada. “You see.”

“Let Canada come with us.”

Ireland’s eyes lifted and the corners of her mouth softened, thoughtful. England looked at Scotland too, but his gaze was wary, suspicious. “Why?”

Scotland wasn’t even looking at Canada, who had stiffened in surprise; though his eyes did finally leave his fingers and drifted over to England. “Maybe he’d enjoy getting to know us.”

England didn’t believe him. Not for a second. His eyes were like stone, meeting a pair so like his own. He knew the little gold flecks in the middle of Scotland’s like he knew the knotted scars up and down his arms from where the bones had ripped through.

“Shouldn’t be a problem, since we’re all at peace and not fighting anymore,” Ireland added and then, almost as an afterthought, “amongst ourselves, anyway.”

England looked between them.

“You don’t believe us?” Scotland surmised. “Wee little thing, why not ask Canada if he wants to go with you or not?”

England looked at Canada, meeting his eyes. “Canada, would you like to go with Scotland?”

Canada just stared. Unexpected, as Scotland and Ireland had never shown him any particular attention. Ireland very much liked Australia and New Zealand and Scotland didn’t show anything in particular for any of them at all. He looked at the two of them. Ireland had a strange, small smile on her face. Scotland was looking at England. Those old eyes trained on him, even though England was looking straight at Canada. It wasn’t often England looked straight at Canada either. Usually he always had a slight tilt, distracted, mind on the verge of the next subject. Canada felt like he was under a spotlight. He squirmed a little. “All right. Sure, I’ll go with Scotland.”

England’s eyes narrowed. “Are you certain, Canada?”

Canada raised his chin. “Of course, I’ll be fine.”

England did not look pleased but he shrugged and turned away, pulling on the jacket of his new uniform. “All right, take me to them.”


They were housed in hotel in the downtown of Berlin. Ireland and Scotland led England and Canada down to another room.

Canada couldn’t see anything, except mussed sheets and nests made out of some unfortunate person’s socks. But England’s eyes lit up and he was suddenly speaking in an old language that Canada had not been taught. Canada couldn’t see the flurry of movement this caused but England could as his sprites and little creatures flew and buzzed and ran out to him, squeaking and chittering and exclaiming over him.

“Are you all, all right?” England asked, holding out his hands. “Did my brother and sister scare you?”

One little fairy piped something to him and England raised his eyebrows. “You spoke to them in Gaelic. Really?”

Ireland looked down her nose. “Oh, well, fuck me for not bothering to go into something more fittin’. Didn’t know it mattered, since they were, you know, hurt and all.” She snorted and looked at Scotland. “Gaelic is amazing.” She held out her fist and Scotland barely smiled but did raise his fist and bump it against hers. “That’s right,” said Ireland, looking at the fairies. “If you all have a complaint, then certainly take care of yourselves next time.”

The fairy flew in a circle and raised her little hands, shaking her head—clearly apologetic.

“That’s not what she meant,” England supplied.

Scotland raised a hand. “Let’s not start a silly argument. We have things to do. We’ve brought you to your fairies. We’re ready to part.”

England looked away from them and to the fairies, speaking to them again and they all begin to disappear inside his clothes. He turned to say goodbye to Canada, only to find that the boy had not stayed but had already left, waiting in the hall. Ireland went out to join him. England watched her, looked out the door, where he could just see that blond curl and then looked back to find Scotland studying him. “What?”

Scotland gave him a nod. “Nothin’.” He headed out.

England had the feeling he’d missed something but he dismissed it when he looked at the wall. Still early afternoon, there was time to catch up on his work and check up on the others.



Scotland and Ireland didn’t take Canada to a battlefield. Not even Ireland knew where they were going until they arrived. She looked pleased though and how could she not? The pub was a good one.

Canada blinked at they got out of the car. “We—th-this is a pub.”

“Yeh, it is,” said Scotland, heading inside.

“B-but what about—“

“What about what? That war that no one even knows who’s fighting who any longer? We’re leaving in the morning, not tonight.” Ireland grabbed his sleeve and pulled him along. “It’s not as though the battle won’t start unless we’re there. They can go ahead and get started.”

They sat in a booth, Ireland and Canada across from Scotland and it was awkward, at first. Canada had no idea what to say to them. He had no idea why they would have asked him to come with them.

“Fuck all but you’re a nervous one.” She leaned back and waved down the bartender, calling out for some whiskey.

Late that night, smelling of alcohol and cigars and collapsing on the small couch in Ireland’s hotel room, Canada realized he felt pretty amazing. All his mind was centered around was that whiskey did pretty astonishing things to his confidence and perhaps he ought to drink more of that and skip the beer entirely. He was going to be very hung-over in the morning. But that was all right because Ireland and Scotland had paid attention to him for a whole evening and even when they were heavy into their alcohol, they didn’t call him America. Scotland always seemed to not be paying attention but he always was and Canada had picked that up as soon as he’d had enough to drink. Ireland asked a few questions that he couldn’t really remember and then taught him one of her drinking songs and they ended up singing it together on the bar.

He had no idea—and would never have considered—that at that moment, all three of his brothers were thinking of him.



Western India, along the coast, had thick jungle. It was the perfect cover for gorilla style combat. New Zealand was well acquainted with thick vegetation (as his own island was covered in forests) and he and Australia had fought in jungles before, alongside America, back in the ‘60s. So while their men and women were boisterous, cheerful and making jokes at each other, America and New Zealand were not as pleased. They stood in front of their bombers, together.

America said, “I don’t like jungle combat. Not even from the air. Vietnam was a bitch.”

“I don’t even know who’s going to be there,” said New Zealand, lips pressed thin. “Boss just says it’s an enemy. No idea who the hell is down there.”

America sighed. “Well, guess that’s why they wanted experienced pilots like us.” He nudged New Zealand with his elbow and smiled. “Stay close, okay? Australia would be pissed if I came back without you.”

New Zealand shoved his arm. “I’m fine! I’m a good pilot. I flew in World War two, y’know!”

“I know, I know, I was there.” America laughed. “You had a perfect record. Flying aces.” He looked over the small fleet of planes. “We’ve never flown together-together though, have we?”

“No, your squads are usually really big. And you fought under your own—not like me and Australia and Canada, we all fought under England.”

“This one took some losses,” America said, glancing sidelong at him. “But, I guess at least we get to fly together for once. I know you and Australia work really well together and you’d probably rather be with him on Yemen—but thanks for coming with me.”

“Didn’t you and Canada ever fly together?”

“Nah. We did some ground fighting together but—well, I guess one time we did fly together. But it wasn’t an official operation like this. It was just practice. We never flew together in battle.” America looked back to the planes, seeming thoughtful.

New Zealand studied him for a moment and then looked away. I wonder if they flew well together?

The sirens went off.

New Zealand glanced up, watching a combined force of their pilots head for their planes. “Well, let’s do it then.”

America smiled and clapped him on the shoulder.


Soon they were in the air. The twilight sky caramel, streaked with purple, like a healing bruise. New Zealand secured his mask as a beep came in over the radio.

“This is your Commander Sutherland speaking, I’d like to welcome you to Western India airlines. We’re currently flying at ten thousand feet and climbing. Please look around yourself at this moment to see if you are sitting next to an emergency exit—“

There were some snickers over the radio.

“—if you are uncomfortable sitting next to an emergency door, please inform your steward and we will move you to another seat.” New Zealand could hear the grin in the man’s voice. “In case of an actual emergency please either jump out of your plane and pray to God or return fire with everything you fucking have. But remember, boys and girls, only one gets you a medal. Fly safe and thank you for choosing Western India airlines.”

America was laughing as he responded, “Thank you, Commander.”

“Thanks, Commander,” echoed New Zealand, grinning. He liked America’s people—they were so unselfconsciously goofy sometimes.

“Oh,” came Sutherland’s voice again, once the snickers and jeers had stopped, “that’s right, ladies and gents, tonight we have the honor of flying with Commander Jones of the United States Air Force and Commander Taplin of the Royal New Zealand Air Force.”

Some whoops answered that.

“Pleasures all ours,” America drawled. “Sometimes we like just coming along for the ride.”

“Glad to hear it, Commander.”


For awhile, the radio was quiet. They had been stationed in Oman and so had a large expanse of water to run over before they hit India.

There was only a murmur when the mainland came into a view, a dark blob on the horizon. A whisper, as if Sutherland thought the enemy might hear him. “There we are, boys.”

“Sutherland, their radar is up,” said a voice, edgy with tension. There was a pause and then she went on. “Missiles fired, sir!”

There was a pop. “Evasive!” Sutherland snapped and their formation dipped. The pilots zoomed like bees, buzzing loud engines coming back together and light exploded around them. Everything happened automatically then. They all came together, moving, weaving. America whirled and dove, searching for the telltale flash of the launchers underneath the canopy of trees.

New Zealand followed, firing to give him some cover.

“There you are! Son of a bitch…” He opened fire, the trees below exploded and then--whoooom--something passed by him. Too close. Way too goddamn close. And big—another plane—had to be but his radar hadn’t picked it up. “What was that?” He called into his radio. “Zea—did you see that?”

New Zealand was looking for it. “Was that a fucking plane? That wasn’t a missile. It was too goddamn big.” He checked his dials. “Nothin’. I can’t see it.”

“Commander Jones, something wrong?”

“Commander, something just passed my plane—my radar didn’t pick it up—unidentified—“

There was a yelp over the radio. “What the hell is that?!” One of New Zealand’s went into a roll, dodging something. “There isn’t—!” Another flash of light, the plane exploded.

New Zealand forgot entirely about the unidentified object. He groaned, hands lifting, pressing into the glass, watching his pilot go down in a ball of flame. He heard America’s voice over the radio, faintly, “Zea, Zea—you there? Zea, you okay?”

New Zealand shook himself a bit and swallowed. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” He looked back out into the sky. “I. Yeah. Let’s go.”

“We’ll give ‘em hell, Zea. Don’t worry. It won’t be for nothing.”

New Zealand looked at the dials and nodded, even though America couldn’t see it. Somehow, his voice was comforting. “Yeh, le’s show ‘em!” He gunned his engines, shooting forward into the night.

“Zea!” America yelled into the radio but New Zealand barely heard, barreling into the darkness, eyes narrowing, hackles rising. His pupils dilated.

He could see another of them; the object and he cut his engines. Cut everything.

“Zea! Goddammit! You—!”

New Zealand vanished from everyone’s radar and his plane glided a little ways before it started to fall. The object rocked by him and only then seemed to realize something was wrong. But by then, New Zealand was launching everything back to life, turning on a dime and firing.

His gunfire lit up the dark and he could make it out. “It’s a bomber!” he yelled into his radio. “Black, flag of—not one I know. Not Asia—“

The black bomber fired at him and New Zealand dodged, dive bombing his plane to the very tops of the trees and then shooting back up, spiraling, firing. The black bomber was fast, zipping towards him, sniping—

And then another plane swooped in and fired. The black bomber shuddered and one of its engines went up. It listed and then went down, slamming into the trees.

“Zea, what the freakin’ hell, man!”

New Zealand shot up, passing America. “Thanks, Ricky!”

“Ricky?”

“Rica sounds girly.”

He heard America sigh. “Jesus Christ, Zea. You—“

“Ricky, he’s tailing you!” New Zealand gunned his engines again, cutting right inbetween America and another black bomber that was behind him. The black bomber fired.

America went into a roll. “Zealand!”

New Zealand watched his dials die. His cockpit went dark. America’s yelling went out. It was quiet except for his yammering heart (thump! thump! thump!). He slammed his fingers into buttons, unhooking his mask, feeling the heat build behind him. “Engines are on fire,” he reported out loud, automatically, even if no one could hear him. “Losing altitude!”

There was an explosion somewhere to his right and America’s plane flashed by his cockpit.

And then the emergency power kicked on.

“—Zea, answer! Zea! Your engine’s on fire! You have to land!”

“I know, I fucking know! I’m on emergency power—! Fuck—! My radar is out!”

America was flying close next to him, firing—a missile exploded before it reached them—lighting up the night. “Can you eject! I’ll come down and get you!”

“Shut up!” New Zealand yelled into his mask. “I—I’m fine. Quit flying so damn close, y’fuckin dumb Yank! You’ll get shot down!”

“I can’t fucking return without you, you dumb shit!” America’s voice pitched, rising.

On the radio, the Commander was ordering a fall back.

“It’s not like I’m going to die!”

“Just shut up!” America’s plane swerved dangerously close, dipping just under his.

“What the hell are you doing!?” New Zealand had a vice grip on his controls as the plane shuddered and started to free fall.

Their wings touched, America’s underneath, carefully trying to both keep up with him and get closer, trying to slow his descent. Moving more under him, there was a hitch and New Zealand’s plane jolted.

New Zealand’s fists were shaking. “Fucking stop it! Now! There’s heat--!”

And then his engines exploded.



In Yemen, Australia heard the call come in.

“The Unites States-New Zealand squad has fallen back—seven pilots lost—Commanders Jones and Taplin went down into the jungle—we can’t get close because of the black bombers and anti-aircraft guns.” Two of his officers were looking at the command unit, taking notes as Sutherland called in the coordinates. “We’re going to fall back.”

Both officers looked up at him.

Australia looked back. His throat felt thick and closed. He wanted to ask how they’d gone down. What had happened? Who had shot them? But. But—no, he—he had to confirm. He swallowed and nodded at the two officers.

“Confirmed,” said one of them.

“Tell him to contact us again when he gets back. I want a full report.”

The second officer relayed the message and Australia turned away, standing out on the airstrip again. For no reason at all, he thought of Canada. He reached out his fingers, clasping them around an imaginary hand. “Wish you were here, Canada.”

Howard scurried out of the command station and climbed up his arm, clinging to him.




They were flying up, up, up. Spiraling around each other in perfect symphony. It had surprised them just how well they read each other’s actions, flight patterns. Canada shot into a cloud, blasting a doughnut in it and America followed, whirling around him.

Their eyes met.

America flashed his spotlight grin, saluted and shot ahead of him.

“Hey, America--!”

And then he felt a flash of heat. Crawling up his throat, strangling his breathing—



He jumped awake and a shout cracked the silence, fizzing away into a moan. “Shit.” It was still dark around him, the area lit by burning debris. “Son of a bitch,” he said, pushing a scrap of metal off. His whole body hurt, especially his side, where a bit of his windshield had made itself at home. He tore it out without looking at it, hands shaking and managed to stagger up. “Zea?”

He bit into the finger of his glove and tore it off, raising his bare hand to wipe something damp and sticky off his face. “Zea! Where are you!”

His voice was loud in the silence.

America stumbled around the crash site, spotting the remains of his own plane. “Zealand!”

There was a choked off cry and then a moan. “Ricky…”

America was panting but he compelled himself forward, throwing himself into the brush. “Zea!”

He could hear a bubbling cough. “Rick…”

“Ah, God.” America ran to him, ignoring his own pains, throwing himself down next to him. “Are you—shit.” He swept off the metal and bits of leaves and started touching him. New Zealand cried out. America paused, skimming his hands along his chest and sides. “Tell me where it hurts most.”

“Everything…but…” New Zealand was trembling and America grabbed his hands, as if that alone would stave it off. “…just…dammit…”

“Okay, okay,” said America, nodding. “I’ll look you over, okay? We’ll take care of it.” He let go of his youngest brother’s hands and moved down, checking his legs. He frowned, feeling the break. Multiple breaks. His legs were scrambled.

New Zealand swallowed hard. “Am I going to die?”

America’s eyes flicked up. “If England didn’t die from getting a couple to the head, you ought to be okay.”

“But how do we know the limits of our bodies?”

America looked down, tried to think of an answer but couldn’t. So he shrugged and shook his head and said, “You could call me Alfred, you know, if you wanted a nickname for me.”

That made New Zealand smile faintly. “I don’t want to call you what the humans call you…”

“Oh, yeah?” said America, tearing off his uniform jacket and grabbing some sticks. He set New Zealand’s legs. “Like nicknames to feel more personal?”

Despite America’s attempt to distract him, New Zealand jerked, whimpering a little but he answered, voice pinched. “Y-yeah. You can b-be Ricky and…and…ah…Australia is Aussie and…I don’t…h-have one for Canada yet…C-Canny sounds daft.”

“Maybe just Matt, then,” America suggested, biting his lip as he tightened the makeshift splints.

New Zealand shook. “Y-yeah. Matt sounds good. I thought of him as we were—were going down.” America doubted he had any real idea of what he’d just said. “I—he’s a—he’s a good pilot. A good brother.”

“Lookit that, Zea. You’re such a tough son of a bitch.” America carefully put a hand under his shoulders and helped him sit up. “No tears. Nothing. You’re good.”

New Zealand was still shaking but he forced a grin up. “O’ course…”

“Now, I’m going to check the radios, okay? And then we’re going to try and get out of India. We don’t know how much of it has fallen to the enemy.”

New Zealand’s eyes were glazing over.

“C’mon, Zea,” said America, voice calm, even smiling a little. “You can’t sleep on me now. Gotta answer, bro.”

His eyes cleared a little. “Y-yeah. Okay. I’ll help.”

“No, you stay here and rest up a minute. We’ll get goin’ after I check the radios.”

America checked the remains of the hulls but they were both destroyed, burning in a swell of black smoke. He went back and knelt next to New Zealand again. “How about a piggy-back ride, Zea? S’been awhile since we’ve done that.”

New Zealand seemed to force himself to stir. “I’ll be all right. I can walk.”

“I know,” said America, rather conversationally. “But—it’s been awhile since I got to spend any time with my younger brothers. C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

New Zealand met his eyes for a long moment and then nodded. When America got New Zealand on his back, his draped his arms over America’s shoulders and murmured in his ear, “You’re a dunce, Ricky.”

America smiled. “Shut up, no-legs.”

New Zealand sputtered a laugh into his shoulder. “That was cruel, mate.”

America walked out of the clearing, limping a little and struck deeper into the jungle.



America was exhausted. New Zealand could feel it. His brother’s shoulders weren’t as hard, subtly starting to curve inward. His brother didn’t complain, just kept onward but the heat and sweat and strain was starting to show on their third day in the jungle. New Zealand nibbled on the back of America’s shirt, frowning into the sweat-slick nape of his neck.

“How are you doin’ back there, Zea?”

New Zealand lifted his chin. “I’m okay. Ricky, mate, you—“

The ground beside them exploded. Before New Zealand could react, he felt America’s hands move. He started to fall but then America was turning, grabbing him in a bear hug and tackled him to the ground. Bullets struck all around them at first and New Zealand cringed, grabbing onto America’s shirt.

A short grunt choked out of America’s throat and New Zealand saw his eyes screw shut.

“America—did they—get up, thick’ead!”

America flinched six—seven—times and his glasses fell off onto New Zealand’s chest.

“Get up!” New Zealand shoved him. He’d just get stuck full of bullet holes if he didn’t fucking move. “Get up and face them, you fucking coward!”

A deep growl vibrated through America and then he was moving. Up and whirling around, staggering when another bullet struck him but surging forward like a train.

New Zealand got up, almost collapsed on his weak legs but went forward anyway. He and Australia were brawlers. They always had been. Where America used his brute strength and muscle to pummel his enemies and Canada was crafty and sneaky, Australia and New Zealand tended more to wrestle. And so he flew out, tackling the nearest soldier and pinning him, breaking his neck.

Someone yelled something and the rain of bullets intensified.

“Not going down—“

“Is it a Na—!”

New Zealand turned, grappling with a man, smashing his face into a tree. Blood and brains slopping off his hands, he looked up in time to watch America—it was almost artistic, like dancing—in motions that resembled part-England, part-Prussia, part something all his own—and then his line of sight exploded and his hands shot out. Yelling and cursing, his fingers went to his eye, feeling blood.

And then there was a new sound, more screaming but closer by. New Zealand jumped back, watching the other soldiers begin to drop with his remaining eye. “America!”

He turned on the spot, changing direction and running for New Zealand. He felt his feet lift off the ground and America had him, holding him as he dodged into the brush.

“Put me down, y’daft—!“

“Shut up,” America snapped. “Do you have my glasses?”

“No.”

“Damn. You need to be my eyes, Zea. Tell me what I’m looking at.”

“You’re still running, mate—you’ve got to slow down—wait!”

Someone stepped out in front of them and America crashed right into her. But instead of being bowled over, like any human, the figure held firm. Strong fingers gripped into America’s thick arms.

“India,” panted New Zealand.

She looked past them. “Come with me, they’re still chasing you.”

“It’s India?” America murmured.

“That’s what I said, didn’t I? Put me down. I can walk.”

America reluctantly let him down, trying not to appear as blind as he probably was. “Did you get shot? What’s on your face?”

India grabbed their arms and pulled to hurry them. “Come. You won’t be able to exit the rain forest. Everything is blocked off. You have to get to the coast.”

“We just came from the coast,” America told her, keeping a hand on New Zealand as the sounds of yelling and shooting faded.

“You’ll have to go back. If they catch you—“

“If who catches us?” demanded New Zealand. “Who—who has the black bombers—“

“I don’t know him. I’ve never met the nation before. When he appeared in the capital…he took everything. My guess is that he will be what replaces us if he wins.”

“Does that mean that this is a puppet war?” America asked.

“It may be—a radical group starts the war—maybe the government didn’t and they just made it seem that way. But they’ve come to take shape into an identity and so they now have one as well. One of us. And a new flag.”

“I saw it in the sky on one of the planes,” New Zealand said, tripping over a tree root and righting himself, looking back to make sure America didn’t fall. “Black banner, red strip near the top, and two red stars.”

“That’s the one,” India confirmed, leading them more quickly now. “Thailand escaped but I think he might have killed Burma. Poor Burma.”

“Does he have a name yet?” America asked, listening to his surroundings, rather than trying harder to see. “Is this why there’s so much confusion about who is doing what fighting?”

“Probably and I don’t know. I haven’t heard his name.” They broke into a clearing. “Found them! Let’s go! We have to get to the coast before nightfall.”

New Zealand paused long enough to take America’s hand. “There’s a jeep and four men. India’s going to drive.”

America followed his lead, tripping on the step up but New Zealand helped him, shoving him into the back of the vehicle and then climbing in next to him.

India took off like demons were chasing her.

During the ride, New Zealand pulled back America’s shirt and helped dig out the bullets that had torn up his broad back but they had no gauze so America just shrugged his shirt back on and New Zealand put pressure on the wounds to slow the bleeding. One of the men in the jeep climbed back with them and used some water to wipe down New Zealand’s face and then tore off a strip of his own shirt and tied it over New Zealand’s ruptured eye.

“Do eyes heal, Ricky?”

America’s face became masklike for a moment and then he shrugged. “I don’t know. Sometimes they seem to, sometimes not. England had an eye patch for awhile back in his pirate days but he still has both eyes now.”

“Suppose I’d look good with an eye patch, regardless, eh?”

America smiled. “Damn right.”

When they stopped, India jumped out. “Here,” she told them, giving them both a rifle and a hand gun. “Take these. We have a boat for you. Just go west to Oman. Into the setting sun.” She snapped her fingers at one of her men. “Where are they?”

“Twenty miles south and moving our way. Our look-outs clocked them. They’ll radio in again in two minutes,” one of them hurried to report.

“Not much time,” India said. She led them down to a small dock where a little boat, sails intact, was waiting. “You both know your way around a boat, don’t you?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” said New Zealand. “America does too—but he’s blind as a mole right now. I can do it.”

She shoved a ragged backpack into America’s hands while New Zealand jumped into the boat to get it ready. “This is all I have time to give you. Were it another day, I would invite you to stay and let your wounds heal.” She touched America’s cheek. “Give my best to England. Tell him most of my air force managed to escape and are looking for safe landing.”

America nodded and she ushered him to the boat and then hopped into the water, reaching up to them. They both leaned over and she touched their jaws. “Best of luck,” she said and then she grabbed the boat and started to push it out.

“Take care of yourself, India,” America called to her and then he felt around and grabbed an oar, adding powerful strokes to the wind.




They didn’t follow the coast, for fear they would be fired at.

“You know it’s over a thousand miles between India and Oman, right?” America said, when night fell and New Zealand slid down into the belly of the boat to rest.

“Ah, well, your strokes are strong, big brother. And we’re nations. We’ll actually make it, likely—‘specially if you can do a hundred miles a day or more. What’s in the bag?”

America reached inside to touch. “Feels like a couple water bottles and bread.”


By the third day on the water, New Zealand was sick and throwing up over the side of the boat. His eye was infected and he could barely see to adjust the sails. America wasn’t fairing much better. From what New Zealand could see, his elder brother was holding together on grit alone. He could barely see at all and so he just thrust forward, never ceasing with his rowing. He had insisted on doing it himself and now New Zealand was prepared to let him. All the strength had drained from his arms and his eye burned and his skin was burning too and they’d finished off the water yesterday.

“Rick,” New Zealand croaked, panting.

“What?” America answered, eyes trying to focus on him.

“I think I’m gonna to pass out.”

“Oh, fuck me, Zea,” America started to smile nervously. “You can’t go doin’ that. What would Australia say? I won’t know where I’m rowing.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuckin stiff upper lip…I know. But…” He was panting. “I…”

“I haven’t slept in a goddamn week, Zea. Spent half of it carryin’ you and the other half rowing and I don’t regret either one—but dammit—my eyes are worthless out here without my glasses.”

New Zealand nodded and straightened, holding onto the ropes but he only lasted a few more minutes and then he slumped, eyes rolling. America couldn’t grab him but only ship his oar and reach awkwardly, grabbing onto New Zealand’s fuzzy shoulder and shaking him. “Zea. Zea, c’mon. Zea.”

He didn’t answer.

“Dammit.”



By the sixth day, America could only row with any sort of certainty in the afternoon, when the setting sun was an obvious indicator that he was heading west. New Zealand was still sick, dehydrated and miserable. His infection had spread to his other eye. America had taken off his shirt, soaked it in the ocean and then laid it over New Zealand’s face and chest to try and keep the sun from scorching him but otherwise, could do nothing else for him. If only he had his damn glasses! Then he could go to the coast when night fell to try and get some fresh water.

His skin was blistered by the sun, lips cracked and bloody and by the seventh morning, he lay back in the boat and just stared up. He was only aware of the passing time when he started throwing up.

New Zealand drifted in and out of consciousness to the sounds of either America moaning in his sleep or maybe daydreams or hallucinations or the clack and sweep of America rowing. It was rather impressive that he was still functional. His tongue felt thick in his mouth when he looked out from under America’s bloody, damp, salty shirt to the west.

He froze.

His eyes were fuzzy and weird and they hurt but he could still see. Just a little. He sat up. “America.”

America perked, blinking and shipped his oar, panting. “What?”

“There’s a ship ahead.”

“Oh, son of a bitch.” America groaned. “Can you see the flag? Christ, we’re both blind as fucking bats.”

“No…I…” he found himself panting again. “I…dunno. It’s big.” He sunk back down into the boat. He swallowed. “It’s some way off…”

America closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them. “All right. Let’s…take it as it comes. Even if they’re enemies, we’ll be high-priority prisoners. They’ll get you to a hospital.”

“But..we…”

“You need a hospital, Zea…I’ll get us out of there later.”

New Zealand started feeling fuzzy again and blackness tinged his vision. “Dammit…you don’t have to do everything…”

America leaned over his oar, head spinning but when he stuck the oar back in the water, the ocean ripped it away. America just stared at his hands for a moment, numb. He looked up, where he could just make out the blob of ship out there and back down where the oar had been. He forced himself to smile. “Well, fuck it.” He flopped down in the belly of the boat and laughed a little.